Missing Hawk
by Mariole
Summary: Hawkeye disappears after his aid station is overrun. Alternate ending to "Where There's a Will." Warning: Some intense situations.
1. Without a Trace

**"Missing Hawk"**

Disclaimer: Twentieth Century Fox owns the copyright to the M*A*S*H Series and characters. This story was created solely for the amusement of the author and any other fans out there. Enjoy.

**1. Without a Trace**

_This story explores an alternate ending to the episode "Where There's a Will." _

BJ Hunnicutt was as tense as he ever got. His day trip into Seoul was supposed to relax him -- haircut, manicure, the works. But it had been spoiled almost immediately upon his return by the news that Hawkeye had been sent to the front in his place as a temporary replacement for battalion forward aid. The first wave of casualties brought with it the news that a surgeon at Battalion Aid had been killed. BJ spent hours worrying about his friend, unable to confirm his status because the heavy fighting had knocked out the phone to the aid station. When he finally discovered a patient sporting Hawkeye's trademark mattress sutures, he had whooped with joy. Everyone in the operating room had sighed with relief, knowing their chief surgeon to be still with them.

But their relief turned out to be premature. Klinger delivered the bad news the next time he brought in a new patient.

"The phones are back at Battalion Aid," he reported, maneuvering the stretcher into place. 

"Halleluiah," said Potter wearily. "Did you reach Pierce?"

"No, sir." Klinger draped the unconscious man for surgery with practiced ease. "The sergeant I talked to said he had his hands full. They're really getting pounded up there."

"As if we aren't getting pounded here," Charles interjected.

"At least we're getting pounded with people, not bullets," said BJ. "Klinger, is Hawkeye in any danger?"

"Hard to say," their hirsute clerk replied. "The battle's been going back and forth all night."

"If it gets too hot," said Potter, "Embry will retreat. He's a seasoned commander. He won't risk lives unnecessarily."

"Thank God for that," BJ muttered.

He returned to his patient, far from satisfied. At least the demands of his craft took his mind off Hawkeye's plight. BJ completed the work -- a double resection topped off with a splenectomy -- and was just closing when Klinger repeated his bad-news routine, this time while delivering a load of towels.

"Sir!" he yelled, the word coinciding with the kick he gave to open the door. "General Embry just gave the word. We're falling back."

BJ's heart leaped to his throat. Potter narrowed his eyes over his surgical mask. "Who is?"

"Everybody, the front whole line." Klinger dropped off the towels at the nursing station before approaching his CO. "A Chinese regiment hit them in the flank. The whole area's being overrun."

"Damn!" Potter sagged over his patient, his blood-stained gloves momentarily still. "What's Embry's assessment? Does he need us to bug out?"

"His orders didn't say anything about us." Klinger automatically accepted an empty blood unit from Kellye. "But Battalion Aid is definitely moving. The road to Ouijongbu isn't secure, so all new casualties are being routed to the 8063rd."

"At last." Charles closed his eyes briefly. "A reprieve from more wounded."

"We've got enough outside to last us a while," said Potter. 

"What about Hawkeye?" BJ asked.

Klinger shrugged. "I guess he'll fall back to the 8063rd too."

"Damn!" said Potter again. "Blast that Drake."

Margaret looked at him inquisitively. She was assisting the colonel that evening. "Sir?"

"Colonel Drake, CO of the 8063rd. If he gets his hands on Pierce, it could take us days to pry him loose." Colonel Potter resumed working. "That crafty son of a buck will use this advance as an excuse to keep Pierce there to bolster his own unit, and leave us short-handed."

Charles cocked his head. "Surely he wouldn't deprive us of our chief surgeon."

"Pig pudding!" Potter cried, while BJ rolled his eyes. Trust Charles to become concerned about Hawkeye only when it looked like it might affect him personally in terms of an increased workload. 

Potter continued to rant. "Drake will laugh up his sleeve to his armpit! The man has no sense of fair play. He's probably chortling over his coffee this minute, planning his coup!"

"Klinger," BJ said, "is there anyway you can find out for sure where Battalion Aid is headed?"

The corporal spread his hands. "I'll ask, sir. But if all hell is breaking loose up there, the last thing they're going to be doing is broadcasting their position."

BJ had to be content with that. Besides, with Hawkeye gone, he had more than his share of wounded to tend to. As the night worn on, dragging down his spirits with it, he felt Hawkeye's absence keenly. Even if he and Hawkeye didn't talk, as they often didn't when they got too exhausted, it was comforting to have him at hand, working away at a neighboring table. But every time BJ looked up now, it was only to see Charles' rosy face, perspiring freely despite the cool March temperatures as exhaustion took its toll.

By 3 AM the urgent operations were done. Potter had finished up earlier, but BJ and Charles shuffled into the changing room together. Klinger followed to collect their linen, looking beat.

Charles sank onto the wooden bench, plucking at the ties to his mask. "Well, Klinger, any word from the 8063rd? Yes, I know it rhymes."

"Nada. En route, that's all anybody can tell me."

"A surprisingly polylingual response." Charles rose, handing his soiled garments to Klinger. "Gentlemen, if you don't mind, I'm going to creep onto my creaky little cat's cradle of a cot and surrender to the sublime embrace of Morpheus."

Klinger stuffed the used linen into the bin. "Gonna sack out, huh?"

Charles delivered one of his forced chuckles that sounded more like a hiccup than anything else. "Well put." He nodded at BJ. "Hunnicutt." He zipped his jacket, then slipped through the door into the dark compound.

Klinger collected BJ's gown. "How about you, Captain? Gonna grab some sack time?"

BJ fumbled with the drawstring for his pants.  "What's taking so long? Shouldn't they be there by now?"

"In case you haven't heard, Captain, there's a war on. They could have been diverted miles to avoid the fighting. Still, I think we'd hear _something_ by oh-four-hundred."

"You gonna sit by the phone?"

Klinger looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. "What else would I be doing?"

BJ clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Bless you, Klinger."

With at least another hour to kill, BJ headed for the pre-op ward. Mulcahy had been there earlier, but when BJ entered he saw only Margaret, murmuring to Bigelow who was shift leader that night. When Margaret noticed BJ, she finished up and headed toward him. BJ wondered if his own face looked that strained. "I was going to find Klinger," she said softly.

"I just left him," said BJ. "No word yet."

"I see." Her head drooped, hands sunk in the pockets of her lab coat. She looked very small and vulnerable just then. BJ wondered what she might be going through, given her inconsistent but close relationship with Hawkeye. Not that she would ever show it.

BJ said gently, "Klinger says we might hear something by oh-four-hundred."

Margaret glanced at the wall clock, and sagged. "Another hour? Oh, BJ." She yawned. "I don't think I can stay awake that long."

BJ gave her a smile. "Don't worry about it. I'll keep watch."

"Let me know the minute you hear anything definite. Just tap on my door."

"You got it."

Margaret smiled and squeezed his arm. "Good night."

"'Night."

Silence descended on the camp. BJ checked on the most serious cases still waiting in pre-op. The nurses had everyone covered, administering blood and antibiotics as required. He then took a stroll through post-op. All the patients were doing as well as could be expected. At length BJ sank onto a bedside stool and scrubbed his face. 

Bigelow's voice in his ear startled him. "Shouldn't you get some rest, Doctor? You won't be needed here for at least another two hours."

BJ rotated his neck to get the kinks out. "What I need is a cup of coffee."

"Sleep would serve you better."

"I couldn't sleep now." He finished rubbing his eyes, then stood as abruptly as his weary body would let him. "I'll check in with Klinger."

Bigelow placed a hand on his arm, smiling. "He's okay," she said, and BJ knew she didn't mean Klinger.

"I know. I just --" BJ felt foolish, but he couldn't shake the dread that had been haunting him all evening. "I want to know that Hawkeye made it to the 8063rd all right. Klinger said they should be there no later than four."

Bigelow smirked. "It's five minutes past now. What's keeping you?"

"Right." BJ left with alacrity. He wished he could laugh at himself, enjoy Bigelow's gentle ribbing for what it was, poking fun at his fears. But he had a rock in his gut where his stomach ought to be. He wouldn't be able to get rid of it by pretending that Hawk was going to be all right. He had to know.

He pushed open the double doors to the clerk's office. From the light inside he knew that Klinger was still at his post. Their tough Toledo clerk might not admit it, but BJ knew that he was as worried about Hawkeye as BJ himself could be. Where their once-rebellious cross-dresser had developed his sense of responsibility, BJ would never know. But when Radar had shipped out, the former escape artist had turned over a new leaf and did his best to stand in for him. BJ was grateful for it. Otherwise, Radar's departure might have been more than the little hospital could take. 

We're a small unit, BJ reflected. It makes sense that we'd feel each person's loss more keenly than a larger outfit would.

BJ banged his hip on the jamb as he entered the room. "Damn!" he swore softly, and rubbed the sore spot. Being tired enough to walk into walls was not a good sign.

Across the room from him, Klinger was hunched over the radio. The fact that he didn't react to BJ's noisy entrance meant that he was totally absorbed in the conversation. "What do you mean, I can't talk to him? Is he the chief surgeon or what?"

BJ relaxed marginally. In his mind, the title "chief surgeon" was always linked with one particular name. He approached Klinger's desk.

"Then let me talk to your CO." After a fractional pause, Klinger hollered, "So wake him!"

BJ stepped forward into the pool of light thrown by the desk lamp. Klinger jumped and automatically put a hand over the mouthpiece. 

"Sorry to startle you," said BJ. "What's news about Hawk?"

"Only negative news, and it ain't good." 

A thrill of alarm rippled through BJ's chest, but Klinger immediately uncovered the phone to yell into it. "Well, how about if my CO tells your CO to get his bird up to the squawk box? I'm sure he'll have plenty to say to him." Klinger paused, then added sarcastically, "Thank you." He tipped the mouthpiece away and covered it again; it must be a clerking habit. The other end of the phone Klinger kept cocked by his ear, listening for a response. 

BJ's mouth was dry. "What's up?"

"Captain Pierce is overdue. He stayed behind with a corpsman to try to stabilize a patient. They were supposed to be one minute behind the evac bus. The bus pulled into the 8063rd thirty minutes ago. So far, there's been no sign of Captain Pierce's litter jeep, and the whole road to Battalion Aid is one hotbed of enemy fire. There's nothing moving on it but tanks and infantry as far as our guys can see. Enemy infantry, that is."

Thirty minutes. Nothing but tanks and infantry. Thirty minutes.

"I was trying to reach Captain Rackley," Klinger continued. "He was the regular surgeon assigned to Battalion Aid. Apparently he got hit by some mortar fire and they had to send him out with the last batch of wounded. All the guys at the 8063rd know is what Rackley told him before they put him under -- that the litter jeep was supposed to follow. I'm trying to find someone else from Battalion Aid who was on that bus. Maybe somebody besides Rackley was the last person to talk to Captain Pierce. It's possible that he might have planned to take some alternate route in case he was cut off."

Last person to talk to Captain Pierce. Overdue.

"Captain Hunnicutt?"

BJ placed a hand on Klinger's shoulder. He wanted to say, "Keep trying," but the words wouldn't form. The rock in his stomach had grown so that it was now a tight, searing pain, blocking his breath, preventing him from speaking. He squeezed Klinger's shoulder and turned away.

At that moment the person at the other end must have come back on the line, because Klinger said animatedly, "I don't care! You're talking about our chief surgeon, here. Give everyone a quick rap on the soles and ask them if they know anything." A pause. "Just do it!"

BJ let himself out the front door. He stepped to one side and propped himself against the corrugated steel wall. He stood staring across the empty compound, the clustered tents blurring into one indistinct pattern. The moon had just risen in the east, its shrinking final crescent hanging luminously over the dark lumps of the mountains that ringed the camp. Too small to provide any real light. On the battlefield it would be dark, except for the flares and the white fire of the guns. 

Was Hawkeye under the jeep at this minute, perhaps watching that same moon? Was he dashing from cover to cover, trying to avoid the approaching enemy and the revealing light of the flares? Maybe he was still at the old battalion aid station, dug in to some bunker and overlooked by the advancing troops. 

BJ pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He stood there until the chill of the night-cool metal warmed to the heat of his back. He drew in breath after breath of frigid air in a desperate attempt to keep going, to keep breathing, to fend off the despair that threatened to seize him by the throat.

"Hunnicutt?" queried a rough voice.

BJ lowered his hands. Colonel Potter swam into focus before him. The older man was dressed in his blue bathrobe, his pajama bottoms and slippers visible beneath, his hands clasped behind his back. The CO's head was cocked in inquiry, his pale eyes narrow in the light bleeding through the shaded office windows.

"Son?" he asked in his gravelly voice. "Any news?"

BJ would have thought that talking was impossible. Yet he found himself answering, "Hawkeye." The word was a whisper. BJ tried again. "He's ..." BJ groped for a word that wouldn't have the finality that he felt in his soul. He finally settled on Klinger's term. "Overdue."

"Sweet mother of Christ." Potter's gaze never left his face. BJ had used to think that those eyes could stop someone in their tracks by their sheer intensity. But at this moment they were just the stricken eyes of an old man. Colonel Potter couldn't help this situation. No one could.  

"Is Klinger on this?" Potter asked.

BJ waved at the door. In an unwitting echo of BJ's gesture, Potter squeezed BJ's shoulder, then stepped inside. The door rattled shut. BJ stood with his head tipped back against the wall, hearing the mutter of voices through the thin metal, not able to understand what they were saying, not caring to understand. The night was old. BJ stared at the moon, slowly climbing into a sky that grew more and more gray. When day fully broke, the fragile remnant of moon would vanish, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.

* * *

Charles Emerson Winchester III was the hit of the yacht party. The sun was pleasantly warm on the shoulders of his white sports jacket, his head shielded from its rays by a dapper straw boater straight from previous-century England. Their host's lovely creature of a daughter laughed up at him as she playfully tipped back his hat, the bubbles in her champagne glass dazzling in the sunshine.

"Major Winchester?"

The voice, distinctly masculine, penetrated the dream. The party broke apart like sun sparkle on the waves. 

"Major Winchester, sir?"

The voice was now accompanied by a hand shaking his shoulder. Charles mashed his pillow to his head. "Klinger!" he growled in his most threatening voice.

"Sorry to wake you, Major. Staff meeting in ten minutes."

"Staff meeting!" Charles slammed down the pillow and yanked up his eye shields. "Has Potter gone mad? What time is it?"

"Oh-eight-fifty, sir." Klinger's moist eyes looked sadder than usual. From the bedraggled looks of him, their local Lebanese flunky had been up all night.

"Surely the colonel must realize that his staff needs some rest between these vicious bouts in OR. If Pierce were here to handle some of the load, my objections might not be so strenuous --"

"Excuse me, Major." Klinger backed toward the door. "I have to notify the other officers."

"What about --" 

The door to the Swamp banged shut before Charles could complete his sentence.

"-- Hunnicutt," he finished. 

Puzzled by the perfunctory exit, Charles looked over at his roommate's cot. Hunnicutt's bed -- if you could call these flimsy mattress stands "beds" -- was made. Clearly the least-offensive of his bunkmates hadn't made it home last night. Perhaps some follow-up surgery in OR? If so, Charles would fill in for him today. He wouldn't like it, but a Winchester pays his debts, particularly when he's fully aware that his commanding officer would order him to take the duty anyway. Might as well be graceful about it, however un-heartfelt the gesture may be. 

Charles glanced at the clock. Eight minutes to nine. Insufficient time for a shower. With a sigh, Charles reached for his uniform. In a statement approaching calumny, he muttered, "I hope Pierce gets back soon."

* * *

Margaret woke to a tentative rapping at her door. She jolted awake in an instant. It was full daylight. Had BJ stopped by last night? She didn't remember it, but he'd promised to bring her news. It wasn't like BJ to not follow through on something.

"Just a minute!" Margaret snatched up her robe and threw it around herself as she reached for the door. She pushed it open, expecting to see the tall young doctor there. Instead, she found a disheveled Klinger meeting her eyes. He looked absolutely beat.

"Klinger." Her sleep-muddled confusion gave way to alarm. "What is it? Did you hear any news?"

"Staff meeting at oh-nine-hundred, Major."

Margaret belted her robe savagely. "I asked you if you had news, Corporal."

Klinger sagged. "All I'm authorized to tell you is that we have a staff meeting at oh-nine-hundred."

"Authorized to tell me?" Margaret felt her insides turn to ice. She forced out the words. "It's Pierce, isn't it?" 

Klinger lowered his eyes. "I can't say, Major."

She seized the front of his jacket. "You'd _better say, mister!" Her voice was strangled, dulling the effectiveness of her threat. "What's happened to him?"_

"We don't know."

She released him with a cry. "What do you mean, you don't know?" 

"I'm telling you, Major, we don't know. Everything we do know, the colonel will tell you at oh-nine-hundred." 

"Oh-nine-hundred." Margaret whirled back to the relative darkness of her tent, letting the door shut in Klinger's face. Oh-nine-hundred. A glance at her nightstand showed her that she had six minutes. Plenty of time to get ready, if she pulled her hair back instead of trying to brush it out. That is, if she could keep her hands steady. Damn, she was shaking like that time the shells were falling all around the hut, and Captain Pierce had held her in his arms --

A tear slipped down her cheek, as suddenly as if it had fallen from the sky. Damn it, damn it, stop shaking! Get ready.

She swallowed the sickness down her throat, then reached for the brushes at her nightstand. Or should she dress first? The shells were falling, and Pierce had held her and made her feel safe. Her memory flashed from the abandoned hut to the mouth of the cave, back and forth. How warm and secure had she felt, huddled in Hawkeye's arms. She hadn't been worried last night. Hawkeye had visited aid stations numerous times. He been fired on more times than she cared to think about, but he'd never been hurt. Only that piece of shrapnel that one time, and that hadn't been too bad. He'd been shaken, yes, scared, yes. But not hurt. Not like those poor young men who were carried in all the time.

The tears were falling in force. Angrily Margaret wiped them away. You're being silly! she scolded herself. You don't know that he's been hurt. But then, why the sudden meeting? Why would Klinger refuse to tell her his news?

Three minutes to nine. Why couldn't she keep her hands still? Where the hell was BJ? Frantically she drew on her fatigues. Why did they have so many buttons? Damn it, she'd never be ready in time. She yanked her belt snug with a flourish then banged out the door, winding her hair up anyhow behind her head as she raced for the colonel's office.

* * *

Dr. Sidney Freedman pulled into the compound near the office and shut off the engine. For a moment he sat in the jeep, eyes closed, soaking in the sun's rays that had only just cleared the eastern ridge of the mountains. Potter's early-morning call had filled him with distress. Still, these people were his friends and he was going to do his best to help them through this. That would mean that he'd have to put his own feelings on the back burner for a while. He hoped he'd be strong enough to do that.

"Dr. Freedman, good morning!"

Sidney opened his eyes. Father Mulcahy waved jauntily, walking toward him. That and his cheery greeting were so at odds with Sidney's mission that the psychiatrist could only stare.

"Getting an early start today, are we?" Mulcahy chatted as he came up. "Or should I say `you?' I'm not an early riser this morning, I'm afraid. It seems I was so exhausted after last night's grueling session that as soon as I could get away, I crawled into bed and slept like a log for eight hours. That was after we'd heard the good news, of course."

"The good news," Sidney prompted.

"About Hawkeye being all right. Oh," cried Mulcahy, recollecting himself. "You don't know. You weren't here last night. Well, we all spent several fearful hours worrying about his safety. It seems that one of the wounded men brought back a report that a surgeon at the aid station had been killed -- God rest his soul." Mulcahy crossed himself. "Oh, you should have seen the relief in the OR when we found out it wasn't Hawkeye! Although there was some talk that they would have to bug out. Did that finally happen, do you know?"

Sidney was keenly aware of the glances that the first-shift personnel cast in their direction, as they crossed the compound in the course of their business. Sidney collected his bag. "Shall we talk inside, Father?"

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot!" Mulcahy backed hastily towards the office door as Sidney climbed down. "Klinger woke me a few minutes ago. He said we had a staff meeting."

"I know you do, Father, because I'm invited, too."

"Are you? Splendid!" Mulcahy paused on the threshold. "Is there something in particular the colonel wants to discuss?"

Sidney waved the priest inside, then followed himself. "Yes, Father. I'm afraid there is."

"Afraid? Why afraid?" Still facing Sidney, Mulcahy backed through the double doors to Potter's office. Sidney followed him in.

The colonel was seated at his desk, his face looking lined and solemn. BJ was slumped over one corner of the colonel's desk, his head propped on his palm. His ward coat was awry, his face bewhiskered and pale. Both he and the colonel had empty glasses in front of them. From the looks of them, Sidney wondered if they'd been here all night.

Mulcahy turned around and saw them. "Good Lord! Colonel, BJ, are you all right?"

Potter waved lackadaisically at a chair. "Have a seat, Father. Sidney, thanks for coming."

"You're welcome, Sherman. I wish it could have been under happier circumstances."

"Circumstances?" Mulcahy blinked. "What circumstances?"

Potter intervened. "Roost in one of those chairs, Padre, and I'll fill you in."

Sidney selected a spot to stand near the filing cabinets. He wanted to be in a position to observe the faces of the staff as they dealt with the news. Mulcahy had barely settled himself when Margaret burst through the door, lowering her hands from her head as if she had just been adjusting her hair. She barreled into the room with all the force of her personality.

"Colonel," she began, "be straight with me. I have to know --" She spotted Sidney off to one side and stopped. Her face went so white Sidney thought she might faint. 

He stepped forward to catch her elbow. Gently he lowered her onto a chair. 

"Major Freedman," she said weakly. "You're here."

"I'm here. Are _you_ all right, Major?" 

"If you're here," Margaret continued, "then ... the news ..."

Potter splashed some scotch into a fresh glass. "Toss that down, Major, and don't let your imagination run away with you."

Sidney noticed that BJ had not reacted in any way to Margaret's flamboyant entrance. The captain twirled his empty tumbler on the desk, staring at it. He must be very drunk.

Mulcahy twisted in his chair, trying to catch the expressions on the faces around him. "What's happening?"

"As I was about to explain," Potter began, when he was once more interrupted.

Winchester paraded through the door. From his impeccable dress and collected demeanor, Sidney mentally noted him as another one who hadn't yet heard the news. Arrogant as the physician could sometimes be, Sidney believed Charles to be a decent human being, if you could dig beneath those layers of pomp and pretense. He hoped that Charles would be able to rise to the occasion and provide some support for his more-stricken colleagues. 

Klinger entered last, his enormous eyes making him look like a dog that had just been whipped. He met Sidney's gaze, and the psychiatrist nodded in greeting. Klinger lowered his head and drew a chair to the very back of the room. He fell onto it and covered his eyes.

"I think you're all aware," Potter began without preamble, "that the enemy overran our front line positions during last night's attack. This advance has been halted, but the front shifted about a mile and a half south of its previous position. As a result, personnel assigned to Battalion Aid fell back to the 8063rd. They regrouped early this morning, and set up a new forward aid station bolstered by members of the 8063rd and the replacement surgeon who was originally scheduled to relieve Pierce last night."

Winchester rolled his eyes. "Colonel, we _know all this, or could easily surmise as much. Since when have you become so concerned about the outcome of any particular action? The front goes back and forth all the time." He shifted in his chair to eye his colleagues. "What _is_ everyone so gloomy about? Good Lord, I feel as if I've walked into a wake."_

BJ winced, but no one else moved. 

"The difference is this, Major," said Potter in his most no-nonsense voice. "When the battalion aid evacuees arrived at the 8063rd, Captain Pierce wasn't among them."

"He wasn't --" Winchester looked about, startled. Mulcahy sat tensely upright, too stunned to speak. 

Margaret was white to her lips. "Colonel," she managed. "Is he --?"

Potter continued firmly, "His official status is `missing in action,' MIA."

Mulcahy adjusted his glasses. Margaret clasped the edge of her chair with both hands, her gaze drilling into the front of Potter's desk. Winchester sat open-mouthed, too dumbfounded as yet to speak. Klinger and BJ didn't alter position, although BJ twirled the empty glass faster on the desktop.

"I'll tell you what I know," Potter said, "though it isn't much. Captain Rackley, the only remaining surgeon assigned to the aid station, was injured by mortar fire during the enemy advance. He was removed with all the wounded they could fit in an evac bus. Pierce remained behind with a seriously injured patient in an attempt to stabilize him and get him out on a litter jeep. A corpsman, Corporal Lewis, also remained to assist Captain Pierce." Potter paused. "That's the last anyone saw of them."

Everyone's control was slipping now. Margaret's eyes filled, though she kept her hands clamped to the sides of her chair. Mulcahy's head was bowed, in grief or prayer, Sidney couldn't tell. Winchester sat breathing heavily, blinking his eyes. Sidney was right about him. He was a good man, if only he'd let it out more often. BJ's expression Sidney couldn't read. He had buried his face in the crook of his arm, slumped over Potter's desk. In the back row, Klinger kept his hand over his eyes.

Potter cleared his throat, and went on. "I spoke with General Embry at oh-five-thirty this morning. The front line units are being notified to watch out for any allied personnel who might have become separated from their units. I gave him Pierce's description, and Drake has provided one for Lewis. This information is being passed down the line. It's possible that our missing friends went to ground when they realized that they couldn't get out in the jeep. The road was heavily shelled. They might have taken cover anywhere between the aid station and the new front line. It's still possible for either of them to walk in under his own power at any time. More likely, if they're still in the area and at liberty, they'll lie low until nightfall."

The reactions in the room were unchanged. Mulcahy blew his nose.

"More important, our forces are planning a counterattack. I don't have the details, but we're told to prepare to receive more wounded. I've already sent out an urgent request for surgeons. Embry is backing me personally on this, and I expect to see at least one new man by nightfall, and two if they can round up another."

Winchester sputtered to life. "But, Colonel, if they do launch a counterattack, assuming that Pierce is still alive out there, surely our own advancing forces will put him at further risk."

"It can't be helped, Major. We've got to reclaim that ground. It's the only way we can conduct an effective search, not to mention that it's militarily indicated."

BJ pushed himself upright. "Colonel, may I be excused?" he asked loudly.

"Holster your hoofers a second, Captain. Major Winchester, you were present when Pierce readied himself for the front."

Winchester looked puzzled. "I was in the room, yes."

"Do you by any chance recall if Captain Pierce attached his rank insignia before leaving?"

Winchester's face clouded. "I'm ... not sure. I wasn't paying much attention." 

Margaret spoke, her voice a whisper. "He never wore his rank insignia."

Mulcahy chimed in. "Why is that important, Colonel?"

"Because if the North Koreans did catch up to Pierce, they might be more likely to spare his life if they recognized him as a surgeon. His rank would help distinguish him from an aide or another member of the medical corps."

Winchester nodded. "I'll check his personal effects for rank insignia when I return to the Swamp."

"Hunnicutt," said Potter, "will you assist him?"

Hunnicutt swayed in his chair. "Whatever you say, Colonel." Sidney couldn't tell if Hunnicutt was ready to throw up or pass out. The look on his face was far from comforting.

"All right," Potter said. "I'll be making a general announcement in the mess tent a few minutes from now. You don't have to attend unless you want to be there. Until then, try to keep this news to yourselves. Father Mulcahy, something in the way of a `safe journey' prayer would be very much appreciated." Potter twitched a grim smile. "You have your work cut out for you today."

"Oh, my, yes." The priest blotted his eyes, and blew his nose one final time. "Yes. I'll make myself available to everyone. Just ... would you give me a few minutes to prepare before you make your announcement?"

"Is ten minutes sufficient, Padre? I don't want this thing to get away from us."

"Oh, I think so."

"Let's make it fifteen. I'm sorry, Father. Today will be one of the roughest days the 4077th's seen. I asked Dr. Freedman to come up to try and lighten the load."

"Yes, of course. How thoughtful. Thank you, Sidney. I appreciate the help."

"And all of you." Potter's gaze swept the room. "We can get through anything if we work together. Don't bottle up your feelings inside. If you need to talk, talk! My door is always open, as is the padre's. Sidney's got his shingle out for business as well. You've got good resources here. Use them. That's all."

BJ lurched to his feet, then stumbled over Klinger on his way to the door. The diminutive clerk mildly put out a hand to fend him off, apparently too far gone to be startled or even curious. Winchester rose and took his roomie's arm in a steadying grip. With a parting nod at Potter, he guided his bunkmate out the door. Mulcahy left just behind them in a considerably more collected manner, sniffling and tucking away his handkerchief. Sidney's heart bled for him. What a position to be in, trying to comfort others when his own feelings must be in shreds. 

"Klinger," Potter said. The corporal raised his eyes. Potter's gravelly voice went soft. "Why don't you grab some kip, son? You can bunk with the night patrol."

"Thank you, sir." Klinger hoisted himself to his feet and staggered out the door.

Only Margaret remained, hunched alone in the midst of the vacant chairs. Sidney took Winchester's former place beside her. "Margaret?"

At the word the tears that had been brimming slid down her cheeks. She lifted beaded lashes toward Potter. "Colonel," she said softly, "_is_ there any hope?"

Potter spread his hands on his desk. "There's always hope, Major."

"I meant reasonable hope." 

Sidney smiled. "Hope by its very nature is unreasonable, Major."

Margaret continued to ignore him, addressing her remarks to Potter. "But in a push of this kind -- they so rarely take prisoners." Her voice cracked, then she forced herself to go on. "What do you think, sir, yourself?"

Potter cleared his throat and bowed his head. To Sidney, it looked as if he was ready to step off a very high cliff. "We don't have many facts in hand, Major. It would be irresponsible for me to speculate under these circumstances."

"I see." She rose. From where he was sitting Sidney could see how badly her hands were shaking. "May I be excused? I'd also like a little time to prepare before you break the news to my nurses."

"You don't have to be there, Major," said Potter kindly.

Margaret drew herself up. "Yes, I do. With your permission, sir?"

Potter nodded, and she left. The double doors swung shut behind her.

Sidney faced Potter across his desk. It was remarkable, the transformation in Potter's face. The grizzled army colonel façade melted, and the next moment a very tired, decimated old man sat behind the desk. 

Sidney leaned forward, reaching for the bottle. "Drink, Sherman?"

Potter waved him off, leaning forward onto his desk. For a moment he was silent, and Sidney let him be. When at length he did speak, the grief that he'd been keeping at bay was clearly audible in his cracked voice. "What a rotten thing to happen."

Sidney nodded. "It doesn't get much worse."

"The 4077th's in trouble, Sidney. This blow is going to take morale down to subterranean levels."

"I'll be on hand for as long as you need me."

"It could be a week. Even longer."

"The office knows where to reach me."

"It all depends on whether or not we can regain that lost ground," Potter said. "Then we'll see what the search turns up."

"I take it you're not expecting Captain Pierce to walk in under his own power."

"Through an enemy advance, carrying a wounded man?" Potter rested his head on his hands. "No, I don't expect that to happen. I've seen too many battles, Sidney. Such miracles are rare indeed. I'm afraid that Major Houlihan is right. I think we'll find Pierce, or what's left of him. Not the other way around."

"What happened to hope – or just plain luck?"

"Luck." Potter straightened. "Yes, I can go along with that. Pierce is lucky, at least he is with women and cards." Potter capped the bottle and returned it to the liquor cabinet. "Hope, on the other hand, is a millstone that drags down the spirits of those condemned to carry on without knowing the truth. If you could exorcise this kernel of hope lodged in my breast, Sidney, I'd be mighty grateful."

* * *

Charles guided his unsteady companion across the compound, drawing more than a few startled looks from passing personnel. Charles drew himself up to his most formidable stance and continued without pausing.

Unfortunately, Igor chose to address him. "Major? Is Captain Hunnicutt all right?"

"Fine, Igor, fine," Charles said. "The doctor has been taken ill, is all," he added, in direct contradiction of himself.

Igor spread his hands. "Well, don't look at me. He didn't even eat breakfast this morning."

"A wise move, always."

Charles opened the door to the Swamp with his free hand, then bowed Hunnicutt's head for him so he wouldn't smack into the upper sill. Once the door had closed behind them, Charles felt temporarily safe from the public eye. He guided Hunnicutt to his bunk, fully expecting him to collapse onto it. But Hunnicutt sat heavily, staring at Pierce's empty cot.

"Sleep, Hunnicutt!" Charles commanded.

BJ shook his head. Charles sighed. Pierce's things were in an atrocious mess, as usual. Charles longed to clear some of the clutter away. That way, at least, Hunnicutt might not be so paralyzed by the sight of the empty space.

Oh, well. He may as well carry out Potter's commission. "Where would Pierce keep his rank insignia?"

BJ mumbled incoherently. Charles leaned closer. "Where?" he repeated sharply.

"Foot locker," BJ replied. 

Charles felt a pang as he threw back the lid, clearly stenciled with Pierce's name. At least the foot locker wasn't a mess. Apparently Pierce reserved his untidiness for articles he actually removed from the foot locker and left lying about. He easily located the case containing the rank insignia. A set of "railroad tracks" lay within. He extended the box towards Hunnicutt.

"Is this the only pair he has?"

BJ nodded. Carefully Charles closed the box and returned it to its place. "What about his caduceus?"

"Dress uniform," BJ muttered.

Charles dug below a trove of nudist magazines. Pierce's Class A's were neatly folded at the bottom. The caducei that proclaimed Pierce to be a medical practitioner and therefore a noncombatant were in place on the jacket collar. Charles felt a twinge of regret.

"Hunnicutt," he said without turning, "why don't you get some rest?"

"You think this will all look better in the morning?"

"I think," Charles said, facing him, "that you are mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. You need to get some rest."

"And to think, only yesterday I had the deluxe treatment in Seoul."

BJ's voice held a dangerous edge of hysteria. Charles wondered if a sedative might be in order. He gave persuasion another try. "Lie down, Hunnicutt."

To his relief, the other man complied. BJ didn't close his eyes, however, but lay staring at the ceiling. "So this is what it's like," he murmured, "to kill your best friend."

Alarm bells sounded in Charles's brain. Still kneeling beside Pierce's foot locker, he delivered his firmest rebuke. "First of all, there is no evidence yet that Pierce has been killed. We have grounds for concern, and that is all. Second, you are not responsible for an order than came in and was executed while you weren't even in camp."

"Yeah, it was executed, all right. Executed right up to the front."

Charles got to his feet. "I see you're determined to wallow in self-generated misery. Permit me to suggest how foolish you'll feel when Pierce walks in unharmed tomorrow."

BJ's blue eyes lanced up at him. "Do you really think that will happen, Charles?"

Trapped, Charles's first instinct was to temporize. Hunnicutt continued to hold him with his stare. Charles lowered his eyes. "No." He sank onto Pierce's cluttered cot. "No, I don't think it will." 

BJ rolled onto his side to face him. "What do you think happened to him?"

In light of this positive response, Charles elected to pursue his new course of honesty. He considered carefully. "If the battle overran his position, he would have been exposed to anything from shellfire to rifle fire to machine guns. Assuming he survived that, he'd have to be relatively uninjured and mobile to have even a chance of escaping detection -- which seems all the more unlikely if you consider that he had a wounded man in tow. Unfortunately, even if they take him prisoner, his fate is by no means certain. I'm sure you've heard as many stories as I have about the treatment he might expect -- up to and including summary execution."

BJ sank back to stare at the ceiling. "Thank you, Charles."

Charles felt the weight of his previous pronouncement like a heaviness on his chest. "Whatever for?"

"For saying what you really thought. If you told the truth about that, maybe you were telling the truth about other things."

"Such as what happened to Pierce not being your fault?"

BJ hesitated. "It feels like my fault."

"It isn't," Charles countered. "It's the war."

"Yes." BJ bit his lip. "It's the damn war."

Charles sighed and bowed his head. When he looked up again, BJ's eyes were closed. Charles watched him a minute. The breaths were deep and regular. At last. Charles closed his eyes in relief. 

The loudspeaker blared, "Attention, attention, all personnel. There will be a meeting in the mess tent in five minutes. Come one, come all. Don't be late for this very important announcement, whatever it is."

There was a swirl of activity as wooden doors banged and groups of people began converging on the officer's mess. Charles watched his roommate anxiously, but Hunnicutt didn't stir. Charles offered a tiny prayer of thanks.

Well, he needn't worry about his movements disturbing Hunnicutt if this ruckus failed to do so. Quietly Charles moved about the tent, picking up Pierce's things. Miscellaneous personal items he stowed in the locker; clothing he separated for laundering, if it required it, which most of the articles did. He couldn't bring himself to pack away Pierce's books or the Spartan array of articles that habitually inhabited his bedside shelf -- his PX clock and decorative aftershave bottle, and the hinged double frame showing a youthful picture of his mother on one side and a current one of his father on the other. Removing those would have been too much of an admission of what Charles already felt in his heart -- that Hawkeye Pierce was not coming back. 

Charles sighed heavily, then went ahead and stripped the bed. The new doctors, assuming they arrived, would need a place to sleep.

* * *

Corporal Max Klinger shuffled the papers on his desk. He just couldn't get going today. He told himself that it was his scant four hours of sleep, but he didn't believe himself. He'd had less sleep than that before, and it didn't make him fall apart like this.

Klinger sighed, and looked again at the paper in his hand. Sooner or later he'd be able to actually understand what the words on it were saying, but it was hard. He set the paper in the outbox and sat, elbows propped on the desk. Then he looked up at the outbox. Did the paper he just put there belong there, or had he just set it there without thinking? Klinger shook his head and reached the paper down again. Holding it with both hands, he stared at the page, willing himself to pay attention.

The squeal of brakes penetrated the slit between the office doors. Klinger glanced at the clock. Almost sixteen hundred. This would be the replacement surgeons. Klinger glanced over his shoulder at Potter's office. He could hear gentle weeping beyond the door. Potter had escorted a teary Bigelow in there only a few minutes ago. Unwilling to disturb him, Klinger went out to greet the new arrivals himself.

They had already dismounted and stood by the jeep uncertainly, glancing around with an all-too-apparent expression of doubt. Klinger remembered that feeling well, when he got his first look at the place that was to be his glorious posting for the duration of his forced servitude. Funny, he hadn't noticed how dingy everything looked for quite a while.

He forced a neutral expression onto his face; it was beyond his current abilities to smile. "Are you guys the new surgeons?" he called, crossing toward them.

"Yes, we are," one of them answered, while the other casually saluted in greeting. Holy cow, they must be new, saluting a corporal. Maybe they hadn't noticed his stripes and mistook him for the post commander. Wouldn't that be a laugh?

At that moment Klinger noticed Major Winchester, eyes on the clipboard in his hand, about to enter post-op. He waved and called, "Major!" Winchester halted. Seeing the men by the jeep, the doctor adjusted his course to meet them. 

Klinger stepped forward to introduce himself. "I'm Corporal Klinger, company clerk. And this," he said, extending a hand as Winchester came up, "is Major Winchester, one of our surgeons."

"Charles Emerson Winchester, at your service," said the major, extending his hand. 

The nearest man took it. "Tucker Willis. Call me Tuck."

Winchester smiled tersely. "Tuck." Klinger braced himself for the sarcasm that was sure to follow this announcement – but Winchester merely shifted his gaze to the second man. 

"Langley Scott," the young man said, shaking his hand. 

"Gentlemen, welcome to the 4077th," said Winchester. "We're a little disorganized at present, but rest assured that your contribution to our efforts here is much needed and highly appreciated. Tell me, have either of you served at a MASH before?" 

Tuck shook his head. "I'm just out of residency. Amarillo, Texas."

Langley said, "I've handled some gunshot wounds. I completed my residency in Chicago."

"We had a surgeon here for a time who hailed from Chicago," Winchester replied. "Expert emergency technique. We were sorry to see him go."

Langley said, "I hope I'll be able to make as favorable an impression."

"Well, as in all areas of specialization, emergency medical procedures must be studied and learned. I expect that you'll have a crash course tonight. However, as soon as you've settled your things, do let me show you around. I'll brief you as much as I'm able before the casualties start rolling in -- which they may do at any time."

"Thank you, sir," said Tuck enthusiastically. 

Klinger almost shook his head, but caught himself. He himself would hate to be dependent on Winchester's good will, which was grudging enough at the best of times.

Winchester turned toward Klinger, making him jump guiltily, considering his thoughts. Thank goodness the major wasn't a mind reader.

"Klinger, would you direct these gentlemen to the Swamp?"

"The Swamp, sir?" Apart from the fact that Klinger was used to thinking of it as Hawkeye's billet, Klinger couldn't see the major willingly opening his door to anyone named "Tuck."

"Indeed," Winchester responded. "Dr. Freedman requires the privacy of the VIP quarters at present. In any case, surgeons would be better able to introduce other surgeons to the peculiarities and nuances of the 4077th. I only request that you gentlemen deposit your things quietly. The other surgeon in residence has had an arduous all-night session and needs rest. No doubt you'll meet him later this evening at triage or the mess, whichever comes first."

"I appreciate the warning," said Tuck, touching the brim of his helmet again. Klinger saw that he had been wrong; it wasn't a salute. It looked like a Texas thing, with Tuck touching the brim of an imaginary ten-gallon hat.

"At your convenience, gentleman." Winchester nodded, then resumed his course towards post-op.

Klinger retrieved the doctors' bags from the jeep. Tuck stood just behind him. "Well, he seems like a right nice fellow. Is everybody at the 4077th so friendly?"

Klinger had to collect himself before he could answer. What a topsy-turvy world it was, when an outsider's first impression of Major Charles Emerson Winchester III is "nice" and "friendly." Klinger grabbed a suitcase in each hand, then headed for the Swamp. "Friendly is our middle name," he said finally.

The doctors hoisted their duffle bags and followed. Klinger plucked open the door to the Swamp with a free finger, then stepped inside quickly before it could close on him. He stood frozen on the threshold, in shock.

Except for Captain Hunnicutt's bunk, which still sported a semi-circle of abandoned clothes and trash around its rumpled and unconscious occupant, the place had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Is this what surgeons did when they were upset -- scrub? All of Captain Pierce's things had been put away except for a few doodads. It hurt Klinger like a slap to see the empty spot on the wall where Hawkeye's purple bathrobe had always hung. 

The two empty bunks, Hawkeye's former one and the spare across the room, were neatly made. However, Klinger's campmates apparently had been busy while he had been poking around his office, trying to think. All around Hawkeye's bunk, filling the vacant shelves and the table for the still, were jars and vases and glasses of water filled with wildflowers. More flowers were strewn on the bed. It looked like everyone in the MASH had stopped by to leave flowers. Hawkeye's bunk was a festival of color.

Tuck came up and peered over Klinger's shoulder. "If that don't beat all," he said softly. "Boy, you people sure know how to make a fellow feel wanted."


	2. Not in Evidence

**2. Not in Evidence**

The counter-offensive began that night, which meant that for the next forty-eight hours the 4077th was inundated with casualties. Margaret divided her time between the tables with the new doctors. Typically they put one of the new men on the table between Charles and the colonel, with the second man assisting one of the other doctors. That way the new surgeons could get up to speed more quickly on the emergency procedures used at a MASH.

It wasn't pretty. Despite everyone's best efforts, the new men were new, and simply didn't have the speed or the training to move quickly through this volume of casualties. Colonel Potter was a rock of calm in the chaos of the OR. His dedication and sense of perspective did more than anything else to keep the dangerously emotion-laden situation under control. However, much as Margaret admired him, she had to admit that he simply didn't have the strength or dexterity of the younger doctors. On very difficult procedures, he had to call in Charles or BJ to assist. He was a truly great man, who understood his own limitations, and worked to bolster the strengths and accommodate the weaknesses of the people under his command. His steadiness and consistency were a tremendous source of comfort to her.

Charles, on the other hand, was trying to fill in for Hawkeye. Apparently he'd taken it upon himself to guide the new surgeons through their baptism by fire. This was all the more important, as BJ was a virtual zombie. But Charles didn't have Pierce's style. Whereas Hawkeye would have explained a new procedure in just a few words (or BJ would have, had his brain been functioning), Charles was too much in love with his own voice. He'd get carried away with the history of an operation, or recite possible complications that could have no bearing on the present need. Margaret tried to hurry him along by handing him instruments before he called for them, but if she rushed him too much he'd bark at her and she'd have to back off. Colonel Potter rarely corrected him. He understood the precariousness of their situation all too well. Keeping Charles happy was the only way they could get through this horrendous deluge.

BJ worked in almost complete silence at the table at the far end. Margaret knew him to be a strong surgeon, so at first let him alone. But she noticed him making mistakes. He'd discover some damage, and then forget to repair it. He'd forget to check x-rays, or checked them so repeatedly it seemed as if he didn't remember what he'd seen. Sometimes he'd pause as if he'd forgotten what procedure he was performing. From being one of their fastest surgeons, he was now barely keeping up with Winchester, who frequently interrupted his work to give explanations and asides. Margaret assigned her sharpest nurses to BJ so she could concentrate on following up on Tuck and Langley. Before the second night's shift she held a briefing with her staff, trying to devise ways that they could best support the surgeons without being confrontational. Not that Colonel Potter would object to a suggestion, or BJ, but Charles would hit the roof over a mere woman criticizing him, and she didn't know the new doctors well enough to anticipate their reactions. Plus, she was afraid that too much criticism coming in at once might compromise what little confidence they had. 

So Margaret did what she could to keep the OR running, but it wasn't enough. They were up to six hours slower getting some of the critical cases into surgery, and it was costing lives. Sometimes Margaret was almost frantic with anxiety, watching the steady progression of one of Charles's ponderous routines, or the hesitant fingers of the new doctors. How she missed Hawkeye's deft strokes, how he could dive into the wretched jumble of a severe injury and, like magic, assemble it into something resembling human again. She'd been watching him for over two years, and it struck her with something close to amazement what a talented surgeon he truly was. Could she really have taken that level of skill for granted? And it wasn't just his speed, it was his judgment. He knew when a procedure should be performed, and which technique to use, and when to hand off work for Tokyo General or the 121st to handle for them. She missed his jokes. With Charles performing a nonstop rendition of the Major Winchester show, the only one with a decent sense of humor any more was the colonel. And he was far too preoccupied with their current difficulties to let out his folksy sense of fun for long.

At last the long second night's session concluded. Margaret stripped off her bloodstained whites, then bundled up in her fatigues and jacket. Though it was the tail end of winter, the nights were still bitter, and she'd been feeling the cold more than usual these past two days. She wrapped herself in a scarf and earmuffs before stepping outside.

The night breeze bit her nose and cheeks. Margaret hunched her shoulders and walked quickly. Dawn was a mere lightening of the darkness, silhouetting the eastern ridge. A white sliver of moon had just climbed above the rugged spine of the mountains, hanging faintly in the paling sky. It was a pretty view, but bleak. Margaret broke into a jog, eager to get out of the wind.

She was almost to her door when her neighbor, Sidney, stepped out of the VIP tent almost at her elbow. "Major Houlihan, good morning."

"Good morning, Doctor." She would have run on, but Sidney held out a hand as if to restrain her. 

"Don't hurry off. I've got hot coffee in here, and breakfast for two."

Margaret hugged herself against the chill. "Are you expecting a guest?"

Sidney shrugged, smiling. He must have been cold, with only his jacket on. His breath came out in a white stream that tattered to nothing on the wind. In spite of that he stood calmly on the threshold of his tent, propping open the door as if he had nowhere else to go. Damn him, anyway.

"Actually," said Sidney, "I was hoping that I might have a word with you, Major."

Margaret did a shuffling dance to warm her feet. "Dr. Freedman, I just spent fourteen hours in surgery. I really do need to get some sleep before my next shift."

"I understand, Major, which is why I procured breakfast for us. The mess tent won't be serving for another half hour. This way, I figure you can eat and sleep sooner that you would have been able to anyway. You do still eat, don't you?"

None of your damn business, Margaret thought. Not that she would ever say that to a psychiatrist. He'd probably read all sorts of things into it. 

Unwillingly Margaret recalled one of the few conversations that she'd had with Colonel Potter outside of the hospital lately. They'd been sitting in the mess tent, with the colonel on her left and BJ on her right. BJ didn't say one word the entire meal, just pushed the food around the various compartments on his tray. Margaret wondered if he was under direct orders to be there, because he certainly couldn't use appetite as an excuse. 

Potter had interrupted her reverie. "How are you holding up, Major?" he asked, softly enough that his words were drowned in the general rumble of the mess. 

"I'm fine, sir." She took a bite to demonstrate this, only noticing at that moment how little of the food on her own tray had been eaten. She resolved to do better.

"You and Hawkeye were good friends," Potter said.

The food turned to a stone in Margaret's throat. She set her fork down hastily. Damn it, the tears threatened to burst forth again. She took calming breaths until the mood could pass.

"I know this period of uncertainty is hard on you," Potter continued. "Still, there's not a whole lot else we can do about it, except wait."

I know that, Margaret thought, but couldn't get out the words. She was afraid she might lose control if she tried to speak.

"I see what you're doing in OR," said the colonel. "That's the kind of leadership and dedication that I can't admire enough. But you're human, too. You can't keep all this inside of you, Major, no matter how superbly you do your job. Sooner or later, it has to come out."

Margaret kept breathing in an attempt to rein back the tears. She wanted to deflect the colonel's comments, to get him onto another subject, but she didn't trust her voice.

"I want you to talk to Sidney," said Potter. "Just ... spend a few minutes with him. Maybe get a few things off your chest. Would you be willing to do that, Major?"

Margaret gave a jerky nod, then fled the table before Potter could say anything else. She'd barely made it to the sanctuary of the darkness outside before the tears broke, making her rush to her tent. Though the colonel had phrased the suggestion as a request, Margaret held it to be an order. Sooner or later, she would have to talk to Sidney Freedman. Fortunately the press of her duties made "later" extremely easy to come by.

But now she'd been caught. She was fully aware that Sidney must have her on his short list. She should surrender to the inevitable and get it over with. If only she wasn't so damn tired. It would make it hard to keep her defenses up. Maybe that's what Sidney had in mind, lying in wait for her at the end of her long shift.

The psychiatrist must have read the capitulation in her expression by the way he stepped back from the door, holding it wide for her to enter. With all the dignity she could muster, Margaret stepped inside.

Her stomach was churning with anxiety as Sidney poured the coffee. He had a pot of it warming on the tent stove, along with two trays of eggs and potatoes. He handed her the coffee -- black, the way she always took it. 

"Draw up to the fire and warm yourself," he said in his gentle voice.

Margaret set a folding chair closer to the stove. Feeling like she was under a microscope, she perched on the chair and sipped her coffee. Less bitter than usual. Its warmth was soothing, despite her apprehension.

"I apologize for shanghaiing you so early in the day," he said.

"So late in my shift, you mean."

Sidney nodded, then passed her a tray. "Here, before it gets cold."

Fortunately he didn't say anything else. Despite her tiredness, or maybe because of it, Margaret found herself really hungry. She made short work of the eggs and polished off half the potatoes before sitting back. Beside her, the psychiatrist methodically worked his way through his own breakfast.

"I would have brought toast," Sidney said, "but I didn't like the idea of what it would do to my bridgework." 

Margaret chuckled. To hear a joke, any joke, was a rare gift these days. "I guess I didn't know how starved I was. Thanks, Sidney."

"I wondered when we'd get back on a first-name basis."

Suddenly nervous again, Margaret took another sip of coffee. When she finished, Sidney refilled her cup.

"The colonel ordered me to see you," she blurted out.

"Did he?" Sidney languidly returned the pot to the stove. "I was under the impression it was more of a suggestion."

"You know what I mean."

Sidney pulled his chair around to better face her. "Margaret, is there anything I can do to help?"

There it came, the flood. All anyone had to do was confront the issue directly, and these damn tears leaped in out of absolutely nowhere. She put a knitted glove to her nose, but Sidney rescued her, handing her a handkerchief instead. She made thorough use of it. Finally she collected herself enough to answer him. "There's nothing anyone can do." Her voice was husky. "It's all so horrible and pointless."

"How about understanding?" said Sidney. "How about sharing your pain with other people who also knew and loved Hawkeye?"

The pain in her chest was like a spear through her heart. "Don't talk about him like he's dead," she lashed out. "He's just missing, that's all!" She didn't have the energy to keep up her tirade, so backed down and blotted her nose. "He's gone. We don't know any more than that."

"And in some ways that makes his loss harder to bear, doesn't it? Not knowing whether to mourn him and move on, or to keep hoping for a miracle."

Margaret covered her face. This session was as horrible as she'd thought it would be. She longed to refute him, to counter that it wasn't a miracle for Hawkeye to be alive. Any number of things could have happened. But when she tried to picture it, her sense of reason jeered at her. How could Hawkeye possibly have escaped detection in an area overrun by the enemy? At best he would have been marched off to a prison camp. At worst -- her mind so rebelled at her thoughts, she had to banish thinking altogether.

"You're a tough lady, Margaret. One of the toughest I've seen. But you're not indestructible. No one is."

She thought he was making an oblique reference to Hawkeye, and hated him for it. "If you're trying to comfort me, Major," she snapped, "you're doing a rotten job."

"I'm not trying to comfort you. There isn't any comfort in what happened, for any of us. The fact is that we may have to live with this uncertainty for a long, long time. Do you think that BJ is comfortable, or Colonel Potter, or your nurses?"

Margaret looked away. Just like a psychiatrist. Pick out the three areas where she was the most vulnerable and throw them in her face. "You think I'm being selfish."

"Everyone's entitled to a little selfishness from time to time."

The crassness of the statement brought Margaret's head up in amazement. "You think I'm _selfish_?"

"Actually, I don't," said Sidney blandly. "I just said that you'd be entitled. All I was trying to do was remind you that you aren't alone. Don't hold yourself so relentlessly to that self-imposed Margaret Houlihan measure of perfection. The people around you aren't perfect. They feel pain, physically and emotionally. The irony of reaching out is that you can ease your own pain by sharing someone else's."

Margaret blotted her eyes with the soggy handkerchief. "I hate it when I get like this."

"Your grief is part of who you are. The part of you that loves and misses Hawkeye is every bit as important as the part that's a major and an excellent nurse. Don't try to bury part of who you are because it's painful or inconvenient. Your friends, the people who know you, value and appreciate all those aspects about you, not just the ones you consciously try to portray. They're more in your corner than I think you realize."

Margaret reflected a moment. Certainly Colonel Potter was in her corner. Margaret felt so comfortable with him. She wasn't sure how much he knew about her relationship with Hawkeye, but when it came right down to it, it didn't matter. Maybe that's what Dr. Freedman was trying to tell her about friendship.

Sidney touched her arm. "I've kept you up long enough. May I escort you next door, Major?"

"No." Margaret rose as he assisted her. "I think I'll take a little walk first."

"You'll freeze your tuckus!" Sidney warned.

Margaret laughed and stepped out the door. The cold air stung her fevered eyes. That was good; the chill would drive away the evidence of her tears all the faster.

In her brief absence, the sky had paled. A strip of molten red outlined the top of the ridge. More people crossed the compound, although it still wasn't oh-five-thirty. Margaret knew that they were getting ready for the first shift, and the possible arrival of the 6:00 choppers, the ones that would be carrying the most critical cases from last night's battle as soon as it was light enough to fly.

She spotted a lone figure standing like a sentinel at the far edge of camp. Only one person was that tall. She began walking toward him.

BJ stood facing the dawn. His hands were thrust into his jacket pockets and his chin was tucked into his scarf, but his head was hatless and his hair lifted in the breeze. When she got close enough for him to hear the gravel crunch under her boots, he looked over as if startled. He continued to watch her as she walked up.

"Hello, BJ."

"Margaret." He turned back towards the brightening sky.

It really was chilly. Margaret stepped closer, and linked her arm through his. BJ looked down, surprised. "Something up?"

"No, down. The temperature." Margaret did a little jog in place. "I'm using you as a wind screen."

BJ smiled gently, then returned to his scrutiny of the mountains. Margaret followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything different from what she'd seen countless times before. "What are you looking at?"

"The moon."

Margaret looked again. Now she saw it. The pale crescent she'd noticed earlier had risen higher. It was all but invisible against the encroaching light. "Not much of a moon," she commented.

"Nope." 

She paused, then couldn't help herself. "So why are you watching it?"

He shrugged. "It's all the moon we have left."

The statement, coupled with his expression, struck her as inexpressibly sad. Poor BJ. She leaned her head against his shoulder. 

One of those traitor tears trickled down her cheek. At the first loss of control, she disengaged her arm. Then, instead of turning away, she buried her face against BJ's chest. His arms went around her. She returned the embrace fiercely, letting his coat muffle the sound of her wrenching sobs. BJ rested his head against hers. One of his warm tears splashed into her hair, where it slowly cooled in the breeze.

* * *

BJ felt the bite of anxiety when the announcement summoned him to the colonel's office. The day before yesterday, UN forces had succeeded in beating back the enemy advance and reestablishing the former front line. All the next day BJ had been a bundle of nerves. This was the breakthrough they'd been waiting for, the opportunity for their own troops to go in and look for signs of what might have happened to Hawkeye and any others who were missing from the battle five nights ago. Potter had assured him that the search and recovery mission was second in priority only to securing the reestablished front line.

It was shortly after ten in the morning. BJ was working in the post-op ward when he heard Klinger make the announcement: "All officers, report to Colonel Potter's office for a briefing from the general's office. Staff briefing in five minutes."

BJ was off his stool and out the door before the echoes of the first sentence had faded. He crashed into Klinger's office, making the clerk jump, before hurtling straight through to Potter's without stopping.

Potter was there, facing a tall, sturdily built man in his forties. He wore a Class A uniform with insignia identifying him as a lieutenant colonel. He turned at BJ's tumultuous entrance. 

Potter began the amenities. "Captain Hunnicutt, this is Colonel Marvin Stockhelm --"

BJ seized his hand and pumped it. "Any word of Hawkeye, Colonel? Captain Pierce, I mean."

The colonel looked uncomfortable. "Not directly, no."

BJ froze, still gripping the colonel's hand. "What does that mean?"

Potter indicated a chair. "Sit down, Captain, and we'll all get caught up together --"

BJ felt a surge of rage that surprised him with its intensity. He whirled on his CO. "Colonel, I've been waiting for five days now to find out what happened to my best friend. I don't need any more suspense. Just tell me the bottom line now."

The door swung open. Margaret entered, with Father Mulcahy at her heels. Seeing the tableau before them, they halted.

Colonel Stockhelm shifted. "Unfortunately, we don't know what the bottom line is at this point. The best information we have at present is that Captain Pierce is missing."

"But that's what you said five days ago!" BJ was nearly frantic. "Are you telling me that you've found nothing?"

"We've found out several things, Captain, but no direct evidence to illuminate what happened to Captain Pierce." Stockhelm paused. "I know you want a better answer, but I don't have one to give you. I'm sorry."

The rage deserted BJ as suddenly as it had appeared. His shoulders sagged. 

A gentle touch startled him. It was Margaret. She led him to a chair, then sat beside him, holding his hand. BJ had half a mind to walk out. Still, maybe this colonel could tell them something. His disappointment was so distracting that he didn't know what to do.

The room filled behind him. It was the same crowd as before, Sidney and Charles, with Klinger once again in the rear. Then the door opened again, and Tuck and Langley came in. BJ was momentarily bewildered, before it hit him. The call had been for "all officers." Of course Tuck and Langley would answer it, too.

Potter handled the introductions. He concluded them by saying, "Captain Scott, Captain Willis, this briefing is to discuss the status of the search for our missing chief surgeon, Dr. Benjamin Pierce. Since neither of you are acquainted with Dr. Pierce, you're free to assume your regular duties if you prefer."

The two young doctors looked at each other. From their growing rapport, BJ felt almost as if he was looking at a five-year younger version of himself and Hawkeye. Langley spoke for the twain. "If it's all the same to you, Colonel, we'd like to stay and hear what progress has been made in finding our missing colleague, Dr. Pierce."

BJ was grateful. The two young men, though inexperienced medically, had shown remarkable maturity in handling what could have been a very ticklish situation. As soon as they understood who Hawkeye was and his importance to the camp, they treated any mention of him with the utmost respect. Tuck took Hawkeye's bunk. BJ was glad of it, and relieved in hindsight that Winchester had thought to invite the young men into the Swamp. The place would have been punishingly empty otherwise. But Tuck kept up the tradition of surgeons with interesting names, so he was welcome.

Langley took what was usually the spare bunk, reserved for temporary staff or visiting friends. It was he who had brought up the curious treatment of the still. BJ had poured the last batch of gin into a couple of bottles and stored it away. Ever since then, the still had been left dry. When Langley asked about it, BJ said, "This is Hawkeye's still. We'll fill it when he gets back." Since then the still had become a kind of shrine. Flowers were regularly left there, as well as pictures and mementos, some of which BJ didn't understand and clearly represented private memories on the part of the giver. Crowded as the Swamp had become, Tuck and Langley accepted the importance of the still. They simply moved around it as they did the stove, or the various foot lockers. Pierce's locker and his remaining personal items had been moved to the supply tent. BJ kept the picture of Hawkeye's parents on his nightstand along with his portraits of Peg and Erin. He'd tucked a snapshot of Hawkeye into a corner of the frame. It showed a hatless Hawkeye grinning at the camera. It had been taken during one of their infrequent leaves in Seoul.

Colonel Stockhelm began the briefing by clipping a map to the easel they normally used to review medical procedures. BJ was curious despite himself. It was his first view of the battlefield that had cost them so much.

Stockhelm pointed to a dotted red line that followed the brow of a ridge near the top of the chart. "This is the current front line. All this area," he indicated the rest of the map down to a road that hugged the bottom, "was overrun by the enemy five nights ago when a Chinese regiment attacked the line from the northwest, here." He indicated the point of attack near the upper left. "The forward aid station was located here, about sixty yards from the front." He tapped an area near the middle, just south of the dotted line. "Wounded were evacuated by bus and ambulance along this road." He indicated a north-south road that joined the larger east-west road at the map's base. "MASH 4077 is just over 4 miles west of this intersection, and the 8063rd  is east about 30 miles. When the enemy broke through the lines, enemy fire threatened the main road to the west, but vehicles could still use the eastern route toward Songu-ri." 

BJ bit his lip. Battalion Aid looked so isolated near the top of the map. "Colonel, how far is it from the aid station to that intersection?"

"One and three-quarter miles," replied Stockhelm promptly. "The ridges to the east and west provide cover for the vehicles moving south. By chopper the distance to the 4077th is barely 3 miles, but the terrain makes a direct ground approach impractical." 

BJ started when someone tapped his shoulder. It was Margaret again, offering him a tumbler of scotch. BJ looked around. Potter sat at his desk, pouring drinks for everyone. At ten in the morning, yet. BJ didn't like the looks of that at all. He accepted the proffered glass and took a belt.

Stockhelm continued. "Our forces were able to stop the enemy advance at the main road. Our first day's counterattack bought us little ground, but on the second day we were able to push them back out of the valley. By noon of the third day, we considered the area secure. As directed by General Embry, our troops made a thorough search of the battlefield."

Stockhelm took a breath. BJ thought, here it comes.

"Battalion forward aid had been shelled and partly burned. There were two bodies inside the station. Graves Registration has identified one of them as Corporal Lewis, the corpsman who stayed behind the main evacuation to assist Captain Pierce. The other body has not been identified as yet. It was badly burned, but in any case does not match the description for your Captain Pierce."

Potter interrupted. "How does a burned body fail to match a description?"

Stockhelm hesitated. "For one thing, the body was too small in stature to be Captain Pierce."

"Are you aware," Potter said, "that a burned body can lose several inches in height?"

Stockhelm cleared his throat. "For another, Graves Registration has identified both these men as Negroes."

Potter was at his combative best. "You'd better be damned sure about that identification, Colonel. How long will it take the medical and dental records to catch up to this poor fellow?"

"Dental records for all MIAs have been requested from their families stateside. After that, it depends on the individual dentist's office how quickly we receive them. The best we can hope for is about two weeks."

BJ closed his eyes. What hell poor Hawkeye's father must be going through, having to deal with his son's death twice in one war. BJ clenched his hand on his empty glass.

Potter said, "Would it help for anyone here to view the remains?"

Stockhelm looked even more uncomfortable. An investigative aide he might be, but Potter's direct approach to the practicalities of death was probably a little more pointed than he was used to dealing with. "Colonel, I assure you that will not be necessary. Please accept that forensics experts have identified the bodies sufficiently to discount the possibility of one of them being your Captain Pierce."

"Well, if you want somebody down there, just yell," Potter said. "I want this matter resolved."

"Yes, sir." Stockhelm turned back to his map. "Now, the litter jeep belonging to Battalion Aid was found here." He tapped a point about halfway down the north-south road. 

BJ sat up. "That's a mile from the aid station!"

"A little less than a mile," Stockhelm corrected. "It had been shelled and burned, but our troops identified it by registration number."

"So Hawkeye got that far, at least," BJ muttered.

"We don't know that, Captain," said Potter gently. "The jeep could have been commandeered by enemy soldiers."

"There were a number of dead NKs in the immediate vicinity," Stockhelm confirmed. "We believe that they were killed by the shellfire that destroyed the vehicle."

Potter spread his hands in an I-told-you-so gesture. 

"However," Stockhelm reached into his jacket pocket, "we found this next to one of the enemy soldiers." He removed his hand. BJ spotted a gleam of metal just before the colonel opened his hand. Lying on his palm was a set of dog tags. BJ's throat constricted. He didn't have to look at the name to know whose they were.

Beside him, Margaret gave a small cry and covered her mouth. Woodenly BJ reached out and gathered up the tags. The embossed letters gleamed in the light. Capt. B.F. Pierce. BJ ran a finger over the raised digits of the serial number.

"We formed a search line," Stockhelm continued, his voice echoing weirdly inside BJ's head, "from the main road, past the jeep, and all the way back to Battalion Aid. A number of GI remains were recovered. Over eighty percent of the bodies that were relatively intact have been identified. Of the remainder, none matches the description for Captain Pierce."

"What about those that aren't ... intact?" Potter asked.

"A number of ... partial remains were recovered. There is no way at this time to state definitively who they belonged to. Anyone who is directly hit by a shell ... well, there aren't a lot of pieces left to identify."

BJ closed his eyes.

Potter resumed his interrogation. "Any Caucasians among these `partial remains?'"

Stockhelm answered solemnly, "Yes, sir."

"And were any of them located near the jeep where you found Captain Pierce's dog tags?"

Stockhelm paused for two heartbeats. BJ knew what the answer would be before Stockhelm gave it. "Yes, Colonel. There were some Caucasian remains among the Asian dead." 

BJ closed his hand over the dog tags. Potter only said, "I see." The defeat in his CO's voice told BJ more than the rest of the entire briefing.

Stockhelm waited in silence. In a moment Potter cleared his throat. "How many men are still missing, Colonel?"

Stockhelm's voice returned to its brisk "briefing" mode. "In the total five-day action, eighteen men remain missing and unaccounted for. This number includes Captain Pierce." 

"Is there any evidence," Potter said, "to suggest that any of these men might have been captured?"

"There is no direct evidence, but there rarely is. It can take months for prisoners' names to be reported, if they're reported at all."

"So if Pierce _is_ alive," Potter said, "we could be in for a long wait."

"I would say that that's likely in any event, Colonel. You'll have to wait either for the enemy to volunteer that information, or for the forensics people to complete their job. Either option could take months. And we have to be prepared to accept that we may never come up with a definitive answer. With all the shellfire in that area, we have to face the fact that we may never recover the bodies of some of these missing men."

Colonel Potter sighed. "Colonel, given what you've told us today, what is your current, best assessment of the situation?"

Stockhelm said, "We don't have sufficient evidence at present to declare Captain Pierce deceased. Therefore, we will continue to list him as `missing.' In our best estimation, we can only conclude that he has been either captured or killed."

* * *

"A great, big, _goose egg_!" Potter slammed his fist so hard on his desk that Sidney winced. 

The two were alone in Potter's office, following the emotionally devastating meeting with Colonel Stockhelm. Potter had detained his staff long enough after Stockhelm's departure to polish off a good bottle of scotch. Sidney doubted it would help. The sight of Hawkeye's dog tags gave the proceedings such an air of finality. If Hawkeye had really been in the center of that inferno, Sidney couldn't see how he might have escaped. Judging from the haunted look he'd seen in BJ's eyes, Pierce's closest friend didn't consider that likely, either.

Sidney asked Potter, "How's your kernel of hope, Sherman?"

"Almost pulverized," Potter responded. "But it's still there. Damn!" He sprang to his feet and began pacing. "There must be something we can do."

Sidney turned up a palm. "What would you recommend? There's been a thorough search and investigation -- an uncharacteristically detailed investigation, from what I can tell." 

Potter balled his fists and rested them on the desk, glaring at Sidney. "Do you know how many men Pierce is physician of record for?" He paused. "Four _thousand, give or take a dozen. That's two regiments of men he treated. _Himself_." Potter resumed pacing. "That doesn't even include the contribution he's made to other cases in his capacity as chief surgeon. He's probably responsible for a whole lot more. Some of Burns's patients leap to mind. That's why Embry devoted so many resources to this search. No other MASH physician's record comes close. That's because no one else has served at a MASH for as long as Captain Pierce has. He's been with this unit for more than two years. That's__ years, Sidney, right behind the front lines." Potter cocked his head. "You want to take a shot at guessing who comes in second?"_

"How about if I just give you his initials?"

"That's right, BJ Hunnicutt. His second anniversary is coming up in a few months." Potter leaned on his desk again. "Maybe I was wrong, Sidney."

"How so?"

Potter sank into his chair. Absently he reached for a bottle and poured himself a drink. He offered one to Sidney, who accepted it. Potter took a swig from his glass and leaned back. 

"Pierce was already a seasoned hand when I got here," he said. "By all rights I should have transferred him to easier duty behind the lines. Most MASH surgeons get rotated out after six months. But he and Hunnicutt were such a team. I couldn't see breaking that up. Plus Pierce fought it each time the idea of a transfer came up. We had to practically beat off General Korshak with a stick."

Sidney frowned. "General Korshak. I don't think I know him."

"It's not important. Some I Corps yahoo who wanted Pierce as his personal physician."

Sidney raised his brows. "He sounds like a brave man."

"Oh, Pierce opened up his wit on him, both barrels. Korshak wanted him anyway. But the point is, Sidney, Pierce didn't want to go. He said if he had to be stuck in Korea, he wanted to serve his time where he could do the most good. As far as I know, that opinion never changed. And he did so much good, Sidney." Potter rubbed his eyes. "I've been going through his service record, as you might have guessed. His record's a bit thinner as a result. I figure nobody needs to know that he once set fire to the latrine, or held rickshaw races in the lobby of a hotel in Tokyo, or hijacked a steam shovel when he couldn't find a cab."

Sidney chuckled. "You're taking all the color out of his paper trail."

"I have no fears that the legend will live on. What's interesting to me are his medical contributions. Did you know that the first month he was assigned to this unit, efficiency rose almost a full percent? That's while he was in _training_. At the present time this unit has the highest efficiency rating in the whole damned Korean theater of operations. You know what that increased efficiency translates to? Over fifty _additional_ lives saved in the course of Pierce's tenure. That's a whole _extra platoon_ of men who are alive today because Pierce made the choice that he did. Of course, that assumes that Pierce is solely responsible for the increase in efficiency, which isn't true. We acquired Winchester and got rid of Burns; that was probably worth most of a percentage point right there. But Pierce set the standards. As chief surgeon, he had more influence over this unit's performance than anyone, with the possible exception of our head nurse. I can't let a man like that go without exploring every possible avenue. I just can't, Sidney." Potter rose to stare out the dirt-flecked window to the compound.

Sidney studied his drink. He had no ideas at all. Maybe his kernel of hope was smaller than the colonel's. He'd seen a lot of good men die, too.

Potter turned from the window, and Sidney blinked in surprise. Potter had a sly smile on his face, and his eyes twinkled. "Sidney," he said, "you're about to pronounce me crazy."

"Is there any particular variety you're aiming for, or just general insanity?"

"I'll let you be the judge." Potter sat down at his desk. "What about Flagg?"

Sidney almost dropped his drink. "_Colonel Flagg, from Intelligence?"_

"The same."

Sidney set down his drink. "You're right. I'm pronouncing you crazy."

"He's a lieutenant colonel these days," Potter continued. "Winchester pulled a fast one on him and they busted him as part of the official reprimand."

"That's a story I'd like to hear."

"I'll tell it later. The point is, regardless of what I think of him personally, Flagg has all these contacts, a whole network of informers. He routinely deals with people from the other side. If Pierce _was_ captured, Flagg might be able to turn up somebody who would know about it."

Sidney was dubious. "You're putting an awful lot of faith in one man's pointed head."

Potter shrugged helplessly. "What else can I do? There's nothing else left to try."

"It's the nuttiest idea I've heard in a long time, and I've heard some stiff competition, too." Sidney raised his glass. "Sherman, good luck to you."

"To us all." The glasses clinked.

* * *

Sherman wondered if he _had_ gone crazy, when Colonel Flagg surreptitiously stepped into his office the following afternoon. Sherman noticed that he wasn't announced. He'd probably slipped past Klinger in keeping with his current conceit of being "the wind." Of course, that wouldn't be too difficult, as Klinger was currently out delivering the mail. At least Flagg wasn't disguised as an usher this time. 

Flagg whipped off his dark glasses and leaned against the wall. "Sherman T. Potter," he said, gazing toward the ceiling.

"That's what the name plate says. Pull up a chair if you'd like to, Colonel."

Still gazing at the ceiling, Flagg began to pace. The man's affectations were enough to drive any sane person mad. Thank goodness Sidney was on the premises -- not that Sherman would tell Flagg that. "The wind" still thought that half the people on base were Commie sympathizers, with Sidney no doubt the Red's main cheerleader.

Flagg whirled to face Sherman. "I want to clarify the mission parameters."

"Of course, Colonel." Sherman remained pointedly factual, hoping to lessen the chance that something inflammatory would come out of his mouth. "What do you need?"

Flagg's eyebrows knotted as if he was in deep concentration. "Something to loosen the lips of those Commie Reds. Something they want."

Sherman lifted a piece of paper from his desk. "How about this?"

Flagg studied it without moving. Apparently convinced it wasn't booby-trapped, he snatched it from Sherman's fingers. Sherman suppressed a sigh.

Flagg stalked back and forth, reading it. "I see, just what I might have expected from you. Medical supplies. Penicillin. Streptomycin. Tetracycline."

"I know what it says, Colonel," Sherman interrupted. "That _is my handwriting."_

"Sulfa," Flagg continued, ignoring him. "Morphine. Bandages." Flagg focused his narrow eyes on Sherman. "You've got enough on this list to treat every Red up to the Yalu River and back down to Peking."

"General Embry authorized it, Colonel. Take a gander at page two."

Flagg flipped to the second page and immediately flipped back, as if the signature might leap off the page at this glimpse of freedom. "And what makes you think that this Pierce character hasn't decided to join his pinko friends on his own initiative, assuming he survived?"

"We've been through that before, Flagg. I would think that the word of the mayor of Ouijongbu and his chief of police, not to mention that of General Embry, should be sufficient to corroborate Pierce's character."

"All right." Flagg stuck the list in his pocket. "You've given me enough to bait my hook. Now it's up to me to reel them in."

"We need to find out if Pierce is alive. If you can find out where, so much the better."

"Alive or dead, I'll get it out of those Reds. That's my job. Count on me, Colonel."

"I'm doing that."  For better or worse, he mentally added.

"The wind" blew himself back out the door. Sherman pressed his hands against his desk and took a restoring breath. He wasn't at all sure he'd done the right thing. Flagg was more than half crazy, and therefore dangerous. But he worked fast and he was tenacious. If Pierce was alive, perhaps Colonel Flagg was the man who could find out. 

There was a rap on the door, then Sidney poked his head in. "Is the coast clear?"

"The intellectual wreck has again blown out to sea. Come in, Sidney."

Sidney pulled up a chair. "So, did Flagg accept the assignment?"

"He did."

"I don't know whether to be glad about that or worried."

"Neither do I. Let's have a drink."

"We had one at lunch. If I have another one now, I'll be too bombed to talk to anyone this afternoon."

"Then talk to them this evening. But don't tell _anyone about my little experiment with Flagg. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up -- or have to deal with their outrage, either." _

"My lips are sealed."

"I've got something to crack them open with." Sherman got out the one remaining bottle he had left after yesterday's trials. He chuckled a little as he poured.

Sidney gave his quirky half smile. "What's so funny?"

"I was just remembering this spat Pierce had once with Colonel Bloodworth about his casualty predictions. Pierce called him the Grim Reaper and pushed him into a wall."

"_Pierce_ did that?"

"You betcha. Bloodworth was going to press charges, too. You know what changed his mind?" Sherman grinned. "Me. I told him in no uncertain terms that any surgeon who knew his business out here was worth his weight in gold. I guess all that strutting down Memory Lane I did yesterday morning was what put the incident in mind."

Sidney accepted the drink. "Is there a point to this, Sherman?"

Sherman chuckled again. "You know those supplies I offered to Colonel Flagg? On the black market, I figure they ought to be worth about Pierce's weight in gold. Fitting, don't you think?"

There was a tap at the door. Sherman beckoned the silhouette outside to come in. Father Mulcahy pushed the door wide, halting on the threshold. He appeared slightly dazed, his eyes overly large in his pale face.

Sherman was on his feet in an instant. "Is something wrong, Padre?"

"Oh, no." Mulcahy fidgeted with something in his hands. An envelope. "It's just that I received this letter in the afternoon mail ..."

* * *

BJ had nearly reached his limit. After that grisly session with Stockhelm yesterday, the last thing in the world he wanted was another meeting. BJ had had nightmares enough from the first one. Every time he'd closed his eyes the night before, he could hear the echo of Stockhelm's voice saying "pieces." BJ's mind couldn't refrain from manufacturing horrendous images to go along with that word. All day long he'd walked around with a rock in his chest and a lump in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to have the words erased from his memory. But that wasn't an option. He had to live with what he'd heard, somehow.

And now Colonel Potter wanted everyone to assemble in the Swamp at nineteen hundred. Oh, well, it had to be better than staring at his cloth walls, the tent flaps being down for the winter. Or worse, staring at the dog tags that now dangled from the topmost coil of the still. When this thing was finally over, they might be the only identifiable objects to return from that disastrous battalion aid mission.

Langley was on duty in post-op, but Charles and Tuck were there. Margaret rapped on the door and let herself in. Her stricken eyes were underlined with bluish half circles that made them look bruised, especially when contrasted with her abnormally pale skin. BJ wondered if he looked that bad. But who cared? Hawkeye was missing, probably dead. A little thing like walking around in shock was minor compared to that.

Margaret crossed to BJ's bunk and took the wooden chair next to him. "Do you know what this is about?" she asked softly as she settled herself.

BJ shook his head. "No idea." 

Potter entered next, flanked by Klinger and Sidney. The psychiatrist greeted Winchester, who was seated at his desk. The major waved at his bunk, where Sidney took a seat. Klinger crossed to Langley's cot. Seating himself on the edge of it, he whispered to Margaret, "Hey, Major. Do you know the poop on this?"

Margaret shrugged. 

Father Mulcahy entered last. He was carrying a cardboard box that he placed on Charles's foot locker near the door. He then clasped his hands and looked at Potter expectantly.

Colonel Potter had remained standing near the central stove. When everyone was settled, he began.

"We've spent a lot of time these last few days wondering and thinking about our lost friend and colleague, Captain Pierce. This afternoon Father Mulcahy received a letter showing that Hawkeye was thinking about us, as well."

An electric jolt shot through BJ's chest. Before he could speak, Potter continued.

"The letter is from Captain Rackley, the battalion aid surgeon who worked with Hawkeye during those final hours before the evac. Two days ago Captain Rackley, who was injured in the attack, shipped out to the 121st. He posted this letter to us just before he left the 8063rd. I thought it would be fitting if we could all hear his words together, here in the Swamp that was Hawkeye's home for so long." He walked over and seated himself in the free chair between Tuck's bunk and the still. 

BJ's heart was pounding. He cast a glance at Margaret. She had gone white, and clutched the edge of her chair. BJ reached over to hold her hand. She started at his touch, then peeled loose one hand to give it to him. Her fingers were like ice.

Father Mulcahy stepped forward. He held what looked like a couple of forms in his hands. They were dirt-smudged and wrinkled, and showed creases from where they'd once been folded into thirds.

Mulcahy cleared his throat. "I'd like to begin," he said in his soft voice, "by reading you some words that Hawkeye wrote himself."

BJ swallowed in a dry throat. Margaret was squeezing his hand hard enough to cut off circulation.

Mulcahy peered at his audience through his spectacles. "It's a will that Hawkeye jotted down earlier that last evening. Now, this document has no force of law. Hawkeye has been declared missing, not deceased. However, after discussing the situation with Colonel Potter and Dr. Freedman, I elected to share its contents with you in the hopes that it might give you some present comfort."

Margaret had begun to shake. BJ shifted to put an arm around her shoulders. As soon as he released her hand, she slid out of the chair and huddled on the edge of the cot next to him. BJ put an arm around her while she nestled against him, trembling.

Mulcahy began to read. "_I, Benjamin Franklin Pierce, being of sound mind and endangered body, hereby decree this to be my Last Will and Testament._"

BJ winced a smile at the phrase "endangered body." He could almost hear Hawkeye's voice talking through the lines.

Mulcahy continued, "_I bequeath to my father all my worldly possessions, with the exception of the following. To Charles Emerson __Winchester__ III --"_

From his seat at the desk, Charles lifted his head, his attention fixed.

"_During the dark days of war made himself available. You've been a victim of a ceaseless stream of dumb jokes. Though we may have wounded your pride, you've never lost your dignity. I therefore bequeath to you the most dignified thing I own: my bathrobe. Purple is the color of royalty._"

At this point Mulcahy set the letter aside, and opened the closed flaps of the box. He lifted out a bulky garment that BJ instantly recognized. Mulcahy must have made a trip to the supply room earlier that evening. Mulcahy draped Hawkeye's robe over Charles's outstretched hands. Charles blinked rapidly.

Mulcahy straightened and picked up the letter. He began again, his voice not entirely steady. "_To Father Francis Mulcahy, I leave five cents._" Mulcahy reached into his pocket and held up a nickel.  "_You're a man of God_," he read, "_and I know worldly possessions mean little to you, Father. So I leave you a nickel, along with something I value more highly than anything I own: my everlasting respect." _He put the nickel away._ "To Margaret Houlihan_ --"

Within the circle of his arms, BJ felt Margaret tense. 

"_To you, Margaret, I leave my treasured Groucho nose and glasses. Maybe it'll remind you of how much I enjoyed that silly side that you show all too infrequently._" Mulcahy's hand reached into the box, and emerged holding the fuzzy toy. He placed it gently on Margaret's palm. She closed both her hands over it, then folded it to her chest and bent her head.

"_To Sherman Potter_," Mulcahy read. "_You not only knew what to say, but what not to say. My Dad's a lot like that. It makes me miss him a little less knowing that you're around. My father called me Hawkeye after the character in The Last of the Mohicans_. It's his favorite book. I'd like you to have the copy he gave me._"_

Mulcahy retrieved the battered paperback from the box and delivered it to his CO. Potter cleared his throat mightily, and set it on his lap.

"_To Maxwell Q. Klinger_," he continued. "_You may be one of the all-time scroungers, but when it comes right down to it you'll give a friend the shirt off your back. So the least I can do is give you the shirt off mine. And not just any old shirt, but my beloved Hawaiian shirt. I hope you'll wear it even if someday it does go out of style._"

Mulcahy lifted out the stained but freshly cleaned garment and bore it to Klinger. The clerk accepted it with his left hand, blowing his nose lustily into a handkerchief with his right.

Mulcahy straightened. "The will ends there." 

BJ jumped. He'd been waiting almost patiently, certain he was going to hear a parting word from his friend after all. From the startled looks on the tear-stained faces around the room, everyone else had expected the same.

Mulcahy flipped back to the first page. "You can see a line here, partly erased, that begins, `_To BJ Hunnicutt, my best friend._' There's a small space, then he continues with the message to Major Winchester. But I think Captain Rackley can help fill the gap."

Mulcahy handed Hawkeye's will to Potter, then rummaged in his jacket pocket. Potter leaned around the flower-bedecked still and handed the pages to BJ. The sight of Hawkeye's familiar scrawl struck him with an almost physical pain. There was the line with his name in it, partly erased. Did Hawkeye blame him, after all? BJ stared at the battered page. From the angle of her head, he knew Margaret was reading it as well. Perhaps she was as hungry for some tangible sign from Hawkeye as BJ could be.

Mulcahy pulled an envelope from his pocket. "I'll read it to you just as Captain Rackley wrote it. In case you might be puzzled by the reference, I'll explain that Hawkeye was playing chess when Colonel Potter gave him the order to help out our friends at the front." 

The priest removed a letter and unfolded it. Margaret put an arm around BJ. He patted her shoulder, chewing his lip. 

Mulcahy began to read.

"Dear Father Mulcahy, 

I'm sending this document on to you in the hopes that you'll know what to do with it. My name is Bob Rackley. I was the surviving surgeon on duty when Captain Pierce arrived for temporary duty at the forward aid station. We had some shelling during the early part of the shift. During lulls and between wounded, Dr. Pierce worked on the enclosed document. I didn't know for sure, but I thought it might be his will. When you work this close to the front, it's easy to think that you might not be around too long, especially when guys are falling all around you. I lost my partner a couple of days ago, but I guess you all know that.

When the enemy advance started, we had a sudden influx of wounded. Then the word came to bug out. I was helping my corpsman load a stretcher onto the bus when a sudden barrage knocked me down. I got shrapnel all down my right side, which put my hand out of commission. Captain Pierce put me on the bus with all the wounded we could fit. Shells were falling everywhere and the lieutenant was screaming at us to move. Just before the doors closed, Pierce stuck that letter in my pocket. 

"In case I don't make it out," he yelled over the racket. "And listen. Tell BJ he'd better get home to that family of his, or I'll have interrupted my chess game for nothing!" 

That's all. The doors closed and we drove away. It wasn't until the next day when I woke up after surgery that I learned that Captain Pierce and the guys with him were missing. I'm sincerely sorry. He was a good doctor and seemed like a good friend. I wish I could say more.

Anyway, when I felt a little better, I asked for my things. When I found his will among them, I knew I had to send it on to you. I hope his best friend realizes he wasn't slighted. Pierce was fussing over this thing all night, but in the end there just wasn't time. Sometimes we don't get a chance to say what we mean to. That's why I had to write you. I hope "BJ" understands.

I'm about ready to ship out. Let me pass along my heartfelt sympathy for all of you there at the 4077th. I'm pulling for all of you, and for Capt. Pierce, too, wherever he may be.

With sincerest regards,

Bob Rackley"

Mulcahy's voice stopped. BJ sat with his eyes closed, his cheek resting against the top of Margaret's head. Her arms held him snugly. BJ heard sniffles around the room.

"I'd like to conclude," Mulcahy continued, "with this quote from the Bible. `Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' I can think of no better example of that greater love than the words that appear in this letter. Let us bow our heads for a moment of silence as we wish Hawkeye well -- in Captain Rackley's words, wherever he may be."

The moment stretched long. Margaret squeezed BJ's ribs so hard he could scarcely draw breath. He himself was numb, limp. How could it keep hurting so much? Surely there must be some end to it, but BJ couldn't imagine how the ache inside of him would ever fade.

Mulcahy said, "Amen."

BJ lifted his head, exchanged subdued looks with others around the room. 

Charles moved first. He slid back his chair and rose, Hawkeye's bathrobe dangling from his hand. He carried it to the still. Silently he shifted some flowers and mementos, then shook out the robe. Carefully he draped it over the still, arranging it so the pocket stitched with "MD USA" was prominently visible. Blinking his reddened eyes, he proceeded back to his chair. 

Mulcahy also approached the still. He fished out the nickel that he had returned to his pocket. Reverently he placed it on the table, below Hawkeye's dog tags. 

BJ heard the jingle of change. Potter sorted through the coins he'd just removed from his pocket. He selected a nickel, then leaned forward and placed it next to Mulcahy's.

Suddenly everyone in the room was doing the same. Tuck laid down a nickel, and Charles. Sidney handed an extra one to Klinger, who couldn't find one of his own, before placing his on the table. Margaret handed one to BJ. He took it dully between his fingers. It was warm from being in her pocket. He leaned forward and they set down their nickels together.

Potter blew his nose. "Well," he said in a ragged voice. "This volume is going to look real swell next to my Zane Grey collection." He looked around the room. "Is it just me, or does anyone else need a belt?"

Tuck spoke up timidly. "BJ?" BJ looked at the younger surgeon. "Do you remember that last batch of gin, the one you put away?"

BJ glanced at his foot locker. He'd completely forgotten about the two bottles he'd stowed there.

"Well," Tuck went on hesitantly, "this might be a bad suggestion, but I wondered if you might want to open one of those bottles now. Sort of as a toast to Hawkeye."

BJ half expected a storm of protests, at least from Charles and Margaret, but they sat quietly. He looked at Potter, who shrugged. "It's a fitting tribute," he said.

BJ shook his head. "The stuff is vile."

"But that is life," said Mulcahy. "The sweet with the bitter. The laughter and the remorse."

BJ made no further resistance. He spun the dial for his combination lock, while Charles fished out an eclectic assortment of glasses. BJ dug out one of the bottles and uncapped it. Instantly the familiar tang of the world's most gut-eating beverage assaulted his nostrils. He filled people's glasses as they held them out, everything from shot glasses to water glasses to martini glasses. He paused when he saw the brandy snifter, and looked up, startled. Charles held out his favorite glass patiently.

"Are you sure?" BJ asked. "Didn't you always say that this stuff would bruise the crystal?"

"Sometimes in life," Charles said, "one gets bruised."

BJ poured him a shot. 

When everyone's glasses were filled, Potter rose. He held his glass high, an action mirrored around the room.

"There are times for speeches," said Potter, "and a  time to reflect. No more speeches tonight. To our dear friend, Hawkeye Pierce."

"To Hawkeye," echoed voices around the room.

BJ drained his glass.


	3. A Letter from Songnim

**3. A Letter from Songnim**

Max Klinger hoisted the mailbag on high and let the day's letters pour over his desk. He tossed the empty sack to one side and sat down to begin sorting.

Things had quieted down at the MASH in the last few weeks. Everyone had more or less come to terms with Captain Pierce being gone. The new surgeons were settling in okay. That was good news. Klinger wasn't supposed to know anything about it, but he'd heard rumors that Captain Hunnicutt might be reassigned soon. Apparently Colonel Potter wanted him transferred to a less-demanding position. It wasn't that the captain's work was bad. To Klinger he seemed as good as he ever was. But Klinger suspected that Potter felt bad about what had happened to Hawkeye. Klinger thought that the colonel was only waiting for Dr. Freedman's say-so before he completed the paperwork and had BJ assigned someplace far behind the lines, maybe even Tokyo General. Wouldn't Major Winchester blow his vintage cork over that!

Unfortunately the current thorn in Klinger's side was his own CO. Usually Colonel Potter was a swell egg to work for, but in the five weeks since Captain Pierce's disappearance he'd become more and more grouchy. Maybe it was their efficiency rating. In the month following Hawkeye's loss, their efficiency had dropped a staggering six and a half percent. From being the best-rated MASH in Korea, they were now at the bottom of the heap. Still, they were starting to recover. The new guys were catching on, and BJ was more his old self, except that he didn't smile too much any more.

But Klinger thought that there was more to it. He had the feeling that Potter was waiting for something. That's why Klinger always sorted the mail as soon as it came in. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he sure wanted to get it to the colonel quickly in case it did come in.

Klinger began the routine. First, three piles. Personal, official drek, and other, like urgent notices or telegrams. Klinger was especially alert for "others," thinking that they might be the thing that the colonel was waiting for. As he whisked through the pile, sorting and stacking, he came across a really unusual letter. It was almost square, pretty fat, written on some thick, foreign paper. Klinger flipped it over to read the address. Capt. BJ Hunnicutt, it said, in childish block letters. Huh. Not the usual Mill Valley haul. About to toss it into the personal pile, Klinger glanced at the return address. BFP.

He stopped in mid-flick, letter frozen in his hand. That was the entire return address. Just "BFP." It was written in no handwriting that he recognized, but his heart kicked into double time. Slowly Klinger rotated his chair away from the desk, staring at those initials. "Colonel Potter!" he bellowed, and bolted for his CO's door.

#

BJ was in post-op with Langley and Tuck. They had a light load these days, so BJ had turned the afternoon walk-through into an impromptu teaching session. He was clarifying the practicalities of debriding wounds at the next stop down the line when Klinger said from behind him, "Captain."

BJ turned. Klinger was nearly vibrating with suppressed excitement. BJ blinked. "What's up?"

"Colonel Potter wants to see you right away."

BJ handed the clipboard to Langley. "What about?"

"I'm not really sure, sir." Klinger backed up hurriedly, heading for the double doors. "It could be something. Might be nothing."

BJ followed after him. "You always get this excited over nothing?"

Klinger didn't respond, just beckoned BJ through the double doors and into Potter's office. Inside, BJ halted. Everyone was there -- Charles, Mulcahy, and Margaret, with Potter standing behind his desk. Obviously they were awaiting his arrival. Margaret paced nervously, pulling at her fingers.

BJ was thoroughly puzzled. "What is it, Colonel?"

In answer, Potter lifted a letter from his desk. "We aren't sure, son. Klinger found this in the mail."

BJ frowned at the unfamiliar handwriting, then noticed the return initials. For a moment the world hung suspended in timeless shock. He looked up, amazed.

Potter licked his lips. "We don't know if that's who it's from. We all want news. If it turns out to be a dud, well, so be it. But if it is from Hawkeye, I wondered if you would let us hear it. Of course, you're welcome to read it privately if you prefer."

BJ's hands shook as he tore into the envelope. "I don't think I can wait to read it privately."

He yanked the letter from the envelope. A top sheet of thin paper, folded in two with Korean writing on it, fell out and fluttered toward the floor. BJ snatched it and slapped it onto Potter's desk. All his attention was on the bulk of the letter, several sheets of strange, thick paper which had been folded into quarters. The letter clearly had been written on an uneven surface with a blotchy pen. But each page was thoroughly covered, front and back, with Hawkeye's well-remembered scrawl. The writing ran in two directions. It was as if Hawkeye had written two letters on top of each other, one in the usual way, across the shorter edge of the paper, and a second one where he'd turned the paper sideways and written across the long edge of the page.

BJ shuffled through the stack, his heart hammering. Hands guided him into a chair. Margaret. She sat beside him, leaning in to see. Charles and Mulcahy hovered over either shoulder.

There. This was clearly the start of the letter. He'd have to figure out the rest of it as he went along. Out of consideration for Klinger and Potter, who couldn't get in close enough to see, BJ began to read the letter aloud.

#

Dear Beej,

I'm writing this letter more as an act of faith than out of any real belief that it will ever reach you. They say that hope springs eternal, but so does despair, and lately they've been running pretty neck and neck in my own squalid little corner of the world. Still, I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well.

The fact that I'm able to write you at all is something of a miracle. You'll remember Our Mutual Friend, the person who made Sparky a happy man by sending him something unusual for his wrist by way of Radar. Well, however it happened, OMF is here, and is probably the reason why I'm still alive.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with the basics.

I'm still alive, which is more than I can say for Corporal Lewis and the poor private we'd stayed behind to help. I don't even know his name -- the kid I was working on. Everyone was bugging out. Captain Rackley was wounded in one of the mortar attacks, so we had to send him with the evac bus. As the resident surgeon, I'm sure he would have stayed if he hadn't been hurt. Lewis volunteered to stay behind with me. He's the real hero here. I _had_ to be there, but Lewis stayed anyway. Between us we were going to get Private (whoever he was) onto the jeep as soon as he could travel. I was going to hold him down while Corporal Lewis drove like mad. That was the plan.

I was cutting and clamping like crazy, Lewis was pumping in plasma. The bus couldn't have been more than 30 seconds gone. The shellfire had lightened up -- or rather, moved past us -- so I was able to hear a step at the door. I looked up to see four North Koreans looking over the threshold. I froze with my hands buried in my patient. The lead guy in the doorway raised his machine gun so I was looking directly down the barrel. I swear I saw him fire. It happened with that weird slow-motion timing, like in an accident where every fraction of a second passes with complete clarity. The muscles in his hand moved. He fired. The same instant Lewis straight-armed me on the shoulder. I started to fall as the white flame of the explosion burst from the barrel of the gun toward the place where my head used to be. Lewis's arm was caught in the stream of bullets. The force of it threw him against the wall. He screamed and curled up, hugging the shattered stump of what used to be his left arm. I could hardly hear him, my ears were ringing so much from the blast of that gun in the tiny room.

I rolled to my knees, but the shooter turned toward me again. I waited for another burst of white fire. Instead, one of his buddies tapped him on the shoulder. Reluctantly he lowered his weapon. The next minute his squad leader, or whatever the NK equivalent is, came in. He took in the room with an appraising glance, looked from Lewis to me, then started talking to his squad. I crawled over to Lewis. He was in shock, bleeding bad. I began to wrap a pressure bandage around the stump of his arm. My back, exposed to the group in the doorway, felt hot; every second I expected to hear a blast of gunfire, followed by nothing. I concentrated on the wound. Lewis's lips had gone white. He couldn't lift his head, but he kept clutching my jacket with his good arm. He kept saying, "My wife," but I couldn't make out her name. If this letter gets through to you, Beej, please tell Lewis's wife that he was thinking of her at the end.

I heard footsteps behind me, and braced myself. Nothing happened. I glanced over my shoulder. The squad leader had come up to watch me work. Meanwhile his cronies ransacked whatever they could find in the way of medical supplies -- not a whole lot. Some bandages and alcohol, a few units of plasma is all. I finished securing the bandage, then looked up at him. He nodded in an appreciative way, then signaled me to move back. I got slowly to my feet, using the opportunity to get close to the stretcher. The private was lying there, motionless. I checked for a femoral pulse; nothing. He must have bled to death while I was tending to Lewis.

The squad leader (who I'll call SL) stooped over Lewis, who continued to clutch his shoulder and moan. It looked like he was assessing Lewis's condition. The guy who'd shot Lewis called to SL. All the supplies were now outside. SL nodded, then looked at me and jerked his head toward the door. I pointed at Lewis and motioned that I should carry him. SL shook his head and pointed at the door. "Ga!" I know what that means. Two of the shooter's cronies took an arm each and propelled me outside. I stood in the light coming from the open doorway while they bound my hands in front of me. SL came out then, and lifted my dog tags over my head. I wondered if they were going to kill me, but if so, why bind my hands? Then the shooter came out, wiping his knife. The memory of it makes me simultaneously sick and mad as hell. What happened to Lewis stinks, but I don't think he would have survived the next few days anyway. At least it was fast, or faster than it would have been -- for whatever cold comfort that might give his family.

I stood in the gloom with two guards watching me and the pile of supplies equally. SL and several of his guys piled onto the waiting jeep. He pulled out, heading toward the battle, taking the shooter and my dog tags with him. The aid station was in a depression, so I couldn't see much, but the sky lit up periodically with shellfire and flares. The night air was cold. About ten minutes later the main North Korean infantry showed up. Their commander introduced himself to me by cracking me across the jaw. While my former guards divvied up supplies among some of the troopers, their pals gave me the same warm welcome that the Jerries gave Sherman back at the Argonne Forest. The only difference is that these guys didn't bother to shave my head first.

The commander then told off several guys to march me and the supplies north. I kept stumbling in the dark, but my guide would jerk me to my feet by the rope around my wrists and keep going. The sky was paling in the east by the time we reached their camp. This was definitely not the place to be an American. Everyone and his brother wanted to have a crack at me. The guy who had me in tow didn't do anything to stop them, but kept me going at a brisk pace through a gauntlet of kicks and punches toward a row of stunted trees at the east edge of camp. I heard moans and screams as I approached, and realized that this was their aid station.

4 or 5 kerosene lamps hung from the lower branches of the trees. Beneath them lay the wounded on straw mats, covered with quilted jackets. Their bandages ranged from (very few) actual pressure bandages to torn cloth to bark. My guide untied my hands -- I guess rope is too precious to just cut -- and shoved an orderly carrying a basin of alcohol at me. I understood that they wanted me to take care of their wounded -- although with minimal supplies, and no equipment except the medical bag I'd left the MASH with, actually doing this was something of a challenge. Not to mention that all of my patients hated me. One of them attacked me so viciously that all I could do was curl up and hope that someone would pull him off me before he killed me. My orderly half-heartedly intervened. He wasn't at all sure about this pale foreigner, but I think he knew enough medicine to realize that I hadn't hurt anyone so far.

A couple of hours past dawn a medical team pulled up with the Korean staple of medical care: the bone saw. Their doctor was so harried that he only grunted when the orderly pushed me his way. He gave me a table and we set to work. There were absolutely no supplies. What little they'd taken from BA I'd already used up. Maybe their troops had outrun their supply lines. Maybe they _had_ no supplies. All I know is that we were back to the Middle Ages, or the Civil War at least -- bandaging with skin and tacking it with thread, angling people head downwards to stave off shock, stunning them with smoke to put them under. This one guy woke up while I was sawing on his leg. I can still hear his screams at night. My orderly squeezed his carotid until he fainted, and I could finish.

Finally some troop carriers pulled up to evacuate the wounded. The guard who'd been hanging around all day tied my hands again, and started to put me on the truck. He got in a huge argument with the surgeon, who apparently didn't care where his help came from as long as he got some. It was strange, because he never looked directly at me. However, the guard released me and the surgeon, facing me only obliquely, pointed back toward the medical tent -- really a canvas sheet stretched between tree branches. I went in and helped my orderly pack our equipment. They put me in their truck and drove me over horrendously rutted roads to the next aid station -- and it started all over again.

You told me once that a person can stay awake for two whole weeks, but you gotta keep dancing. Well, I danced. There was an endless supply of wounded, and the working conditions remained pretty much the same. One time we got a cache of pressure bandages, and I wondered what aid station they had ransacked to get it, and what had happened to the people who'd been working there. But mostly it was a nonstop stream of casualties with very little to do for them.

We followed the battle. Sometimes we were close enough to see the flashes of light from small-arms fire splitting the darkness like fireflies. Several times shells fell right into our makeshift hospital, shaking us up. It's hard to keep track of time when you're catching a catnap whenever you can, but I think it must have been 6 days or so since my capture. I was resting against the base of a tree when my orderly (who'd stayed with me through the various moves) came up and tapped me on the shoulder. I started to rise, thinking that they needed me to get back to work, but he pushed me back. As he did so, he pressed a wad of cooked rice into my hand. He fussed with his tray, providing cover for me while I bolted it down. It was the first thing I'd had to eat since I'd left the MASH.

One thing I really tried to work on was getting the instruments sterile. Infection was our biggest killer after blood loss, and antibiotics were practically nonexistent in the field. When we didn't have alcohol, which happened all too often, we used fire or even urine, whatever we could. I hope we saved a few more lives. I know Uncle Sam might consider this giving aid and comfort to the enemy, but to me these soldiers were just more victims of the war. The real culprits are far from the front lines. Most of these guys were out of the fight anyway, unless the North Koreans are planning to field a one-armed or one-legged division someday.

My orderly had sneaked me several more handfuls of rice, so it was probably day 9 that the mucky-muck showed up. He was some colonel or equivalent. He jumped from his jeep, marched up to me accompanied by his entourage, and looked me over disdainfully from head to foot. Without a word he walked away to talk to the chief surgeon. The doctor said nothing, just dipped his head lower and lower while his shoulders drooped. When the colonel finished, he wordlessly turned away. Minutes later I found myself heading north, bouncing around in the back of a truck over the worst roads in Korea, while the soldiers clinging to their own benches either glared, sneered, or ignored me according to their natures.

They took me to a railway station where I met up with other prisoners of war -- two crew members from a downed US bomber, one of whom had a dislocated elbow and some fractured ribs, plus a handful of allies, among them an Aussie, a Canadian, and a real live wire from the Scottish Highlanders. It was such a relief to be able to talk to someone in English again! I splinted the lieutenant's arm as best I could, then looked over a French officer with a shoulder wound and a Turk who was in a bad way, with a belly wound and fever. Soon afterwards they crammed the baker's dozen of us into one end of a box car that had been barricaded off. I guess they'd used it for sheep at one time. I'm pretty sure they were responsible for that mess on the floor. There was no real place for us to sit, and not enough room on the floor for us all unless we sat on top of each other. Those nearest the door had to stand spraddle-legged over the Turk. This included me, since I was still under the illusion that I might be able to do something for him.

We stood unmoving on the tracks for hours. Behind the barricade came all sorts of banging; I think they were loading some sort of machinery into the front part of our car. The noise gradually moved down the track as they loaded car after car. Mid-day came and the temperature rose. The sunward side of the car radiated heat, and we all stood gasping for breath. Night fell, and still we stood there. It had been hours since anyone had had anything to drink, and the Turk was fading fast. The Aussie and Scott -- Wally and Don by name -- started banging on the wall and hollering. A passing guard hit back with something that sounded like a sledgehammer. After that they gave it up and we all just stood there, suffering.

We moved out sometime after nightfall. At first the train eased forward, and everything was fine. Then we hit the first jolt, and everyone who was standing fell over onto everybody else. I guess they figured if they packed us in tightly enough we'd be okay, but it's amazing how hard it is to keep upright in a moving box when there isn't anything to hold onto. Eventually we got a system going where those of us who were standing would brace against each other, but every time the train hit a curve the dynamics would shift and everybody would fall over again. There were a lot of curves. The track followed the river. I could smell the water, and hear it rushing past, especially when the trestle crossed a tributary. Our navigator's best guess was that we were heading north. We seemed to be paralleling the mountains, heading for the center of the country. The night wind seeped through every crack. Only the flight crew was dressed warmly enough. The rest of us huddled up, imitating a tray of ice cubes.

We got to know each other a little on that journey. My biggest concern, one shared by all of us, was that no one beyond our little band knew that we were alive. I kept imagining my father getting a second telegram, an official notification that this time said "missing" instead of "dead." It was tearing me up to think about it. Anyway, on the off chance that this letter does get through (and the sheer effrontery of that thought sometimes boggles my mind), here are the names of my companions. If you get this list, please get word back to their families:

Capt. Robert MaGarry, pilot, USA  
2 Lt. William Deesland, navigator, USA  
Lt. Cpl. Donovan Ehler, UK  
Lt. Herbert Allard, engineer, Can.  
Pfc. Walter Maltby, Aust.  
Lt. Stelios Ventris, Gr.  
Cpl. Nikos Seferis, Gr.  
Pvt. Petros Zugolis (?), Gr.  
Pvt. Mikis Yanopoulos (?), Gr.  
Pfc. Johan Janssens, Belg.  
Lt. Ugo Chatigney (?), Fr.

I'm not sure about some of these spellings, but I'm pretty sure I got their names and ranks right. We stopped a few times during the night for more loading or unloading. Deesland had a map of Korea in his head, and was pretty sure we passed through Kumchan, Pyongsan, and Namchon (?), probably heading for the Sinmak pass. No one approached our car, and we got underway again after an hour or two. As soon as it got light, they side-tracked us. For hours the train stood without moving. In the morning we were shaded by the eastern mountains, but in the afternoon the heat became stifling. We all collapsed to the degree that we were able, given the tight quarters. To hear water running outside and not be able to get a drink was maddening. We all tried shouting again, but by that time none of us had much voice left. To no one's surprise, no one answered us. At dusk the Turk died. He had no tags, so I have no name to give you. He looked to be about thirty years old. He had a thick brown mustache, and sergeant's stripes.

Now Deesland and Chatigney were down, their injuries having taken more out of them than the rest of us. It was impossible not to step or sit on anyone once the train got started again, which it did shortly after nightfall. I think the conductor must have been trying to avoid our planes. It was hard to hear anything over the clanging of the tracks, but we were overflown by an engine once or twice. MaGarry said it sounded like a B-26. But either our train was missed in the valley or was not considered an important enough target, because we never drew any friendly fire.

The second night was a repeat of the first, except that no one had the strength to talk. I think I blacked out a few times. Maybe it was sleep, I don't know. I'm so tired these days. Every time the train braked for a station, MaGarry looked through the cracks and listened for some clue as to our whereabouts. He figured we passed through Sohung and Sariwon. Toward dawn we pulled into a medium-sized station. From the chat on the platform, he decided we were in Songnim. He speculated that they might be taking us all the way to Pyongyang. We were hopeful we might be turned over to the Chinese there, and maybe get some better treatment.

At Songnim, for the first time in two days, someone came to the door. Some railway worker slid back the door with a racket. MaGarry was standing, and a couple of the Greeks, but I couldn't move. I just sat there in a heap with the rest of them and watched a silhouette in a uniform climb aboard. He looked down at the dead man, then at the rest of us. I got a shock as our eyes met. It was Syn Paik, the North Korean surgeon we'd treated last year. How the hell he got there -- prisoner exchange, escape, special favor -- I don't know. But there he was. I felt the jolt right through my body.

Judging from his expression, he had the same reaction. The fact that he recognized me at all is a miracle. A week and a half with virtually nothing to eat, and bruises all over my face, not to mention the beard, I must have looked a fright. But he knew me. He turned and barked orders to the man behind him. When the worker hesitated, Paik yelled. The man scurried off. Paik then got one of the guards (the other kept us in his machine-gun sights) to help remove the dead man. The railway worker returned carrying a bucket of water. Paik handed it in. I thought we would go crazy when we finally got a chance to drink, but MaGarry and Ventris took charge. The wounded men got the first dipper, then every one else, lowest rank first. There was enough for us to have a cup and a half each.

While this was going on, Paik was conferring with the guards. The local NK officer didn't like what he had to say, but Paik was insistent and the guy backed down. The next thing I know, Paik was helping me off the train. "What about them?" I croaked with the remains of my voice, meaning my friends still on board.

"They are going to a work camp farther north," Paik said in his accented but otherwise excellent English. He put my arm across his neck. "You are coming with me."

He didn't say anything else, and I think it's just as well. It wouldn't do for his comrades to see him getting too chummy with a Yank. They gave us some powerful glares as we passed out of the station, I can tell you. I tried to look behind me, but Paik was walking so quickly I didn't have a chance to see my companions off. I hope they made it to the camp okay. I hope they're all right.

I see that I'm coming to the end of my paper. OMF slipped several sheets to me. Who'd have thought, exhausted as I am, that I'd still be writing? I guess I really needed to talk. Although I suppose I'm really just talking to myself. How the hell this can get through the lines is beyond me. Which is just as well, considering some of the things I've written here. I want to tell you, Beej, but I hate to think of you actually reading it. OMF got me some paper last week, too. I wrote my dad. I don't know if he got it, or how long it might take to reach America from here. If you get this, Beej, please tell Dad I'm okay.

All right, I still want to write and I'm out of paper. I'm going to try that Olde English trick of "crossing the lines." I hope you can read what I've written now that I'm writing across the long edge of the page. I'll put a little number at the top of each "crossed" page so you can read them in some kind of order. How you'll actually do this is beyond me. Everything's beyond me. I'm so tired I can't think straight. But I can't sleep. I keep imagining you sitting across from me in the Swamp, watching me with that focused expression on your face. You look exactly like you used to, with the light coming from the lamps over our beds, hitting your hair and the side of your face. It makes it seem almost light in here. The truth is it's dark, so dark I can hardly make out the lines I've written on this page. The only light is from a narrow gap under the door and a 6-inch rectangular grill two-thirds of the way up that the guard uses to look in on me, guided by the flickering gleam of his kerosene lamp. He's gone now, and the light with him. I can hear him coming in plenty of time to hide this letter, which I've done twice now and will have to do once more before dawn, if he keeps to his schedule. There's a window just up the hall, with moonlight streaming in. The paper shows up like pale smoke against the stone floor of my cell. I can partly see the lines I write, enough so that I don't think I'm overlapping my words too many times (except for now with this deliberate line-crossing). The most dangerous part of this venture will be getting the letter back to OMF tomorrow. It doesn't pay to worry about what might happen if they catch us. I try not to think about it. On with the account.

Paik helped me to the street, then summoned a rickshaw to carry me. If I hadn't been so worn out I think I would have enjoyed the ride. There's a lush range of mountains running from north to south on the east side of town. There are fields of fruit trees all around, bare of leaves now in winter, but what must be a pear- and cherry-blossom festival in the spring. The town is nestled into the foothills that rise toward the mountains. The river, broad enough at this point to be an estuary, borders the town on the west, with the railroad following its western shore. The predawn air was cool and moist. The sky behind the mountains was pale enough to reveal the undulations in the shadowy terrain.

Near the top of the hill, in the center of town, is the hospital. It's moldering like most Korean buildings these days, but it had been constructed of brick and was still an imposing structure. Believe it or not, it's a teaching hospital. I would have thought they'd have had one in Pyongyang. Maybe they do. Maybe they moved it here to get away from the bombing, I don't know. Anyway, Paik works here now, as does Our Mutual Friend, who I'll continue to call OMF in case this letter falls into official hands at some point. Paik had a hell of a time getting me in the door. It seems the North Koreans were not too keen on having one of my kind around here. But Paik argued diligently, and they finally let me in. A soldier followed us into the clinic, where Paik started cleaning me up. "I told them," he said in his throaty voice, "that you are surgeon of great reputation and technique. Perhaps you would care to demonstrate that femoral-artery transplant for the staff here."

"Delighted," I told him, wincing as the alcohol stung the cuts on my face. That was our whole conversation, because the man who turned out to be the official mouthpiece for Communist China came in. His name is Wei. I call him "No Wei" because he's very good at refusing all of my requests. Although he calls himself an interpreter, his real function is to monitor anything I might say to Paik or any of the other doctors who speak English. He also regularly extols the benefits of Communism to me, a very tiresome litany. Anyway, we doctors keep our discussions curtly professional as a result. Any given day you'll see me walking the halls followed by my faithful interpreter and the guard du jour. My clothing was condemned upon admittance, but Paik let me bathe in a bucket and put on a clean quilted-cotton suit. It's kind of the ubiquitous uniform here. It's too short for me, with my wrists sticking out and my ankles bare for several inches between the hemline and the house slippers that I wear everywhere. At least as a consulting physician they let me keep reasonably clean.

My home is the jail, where I'm writing you now. I think it used to be some kind of storage facility, before they converted some of the rooms into cells. It's just a couple of blocks from the hospital. Sometime after nightfall they lock me in my room, a windowless closet that clearly used to serve as a pantry. You can still see the holes in the wall where the brackets for the shelves were attached. Here they leave me to pace the stone floor in complete and utter boredom until dawn breaks. The cell measures six-feet long by four-feet wide. Since I'm six-two, I have to put the straw mat cater-cornered on the floor in order to stretch out. I rarely do this for long, as the rats have to climb over me instead of going around, and none of us likes that very much. When I'm not trying to sleep I pace in very small circles. I've got a honey bucket at one end of the room, and the steel-bound wooden door with the grill at the other. That's my world for ten hours out of every twenty-four.

In the morning I get my meal of the day: a wooden bowl of rice gruel, sometimes with a bit of boiled cabbage or potato thrown in. The rats smell it and flatten themselves to squeeze in through the slit under the door -- repulsive. But they get nothing from me; I polish off every scrap. That didn't stop one of them from jumping up my leg, trying to get at the bowl. Even the rats are starving. I hope I don't get rabies; they haven't bitten me yet, but they make me nervous. And they lick the bowl when I'm done, which disgusts me. I've considered jumping on them, but I don't want to provoke them into biting me, and I'm not quite hungry enough yet to eat raw rat. Maybe I should be more broad-minded. I've tried asking for two meals a day, but "no way." I get dizzy if I stand up too quickly. I must have dropped twenty pounds since you've seen me. Already my cotton suit is looser. If this keeps up I could be the official Maine contestant for the Auschwitz survivor look-alike contest.

Sometime after breakfast they come and get me. I used to dread that short walk to the hospital. It wasn't the walk itself. I'd get a glimpse of the mountains and a breath of moist air, redolent with the vegetable and human waste that is sprinkled around the earth-walled buildings that crowd the street, between the bomb-damaged shells of larger structures. But my neighbors definitely don't want me here. No one has hurt me, but I've been spat on, cuffed and cursed at. I think I'd be in trouble if it weren't for my escort. Lately the black looks have eased up a little; I guess they're getting resigned to my being here. Still, it reinforces the futility of escape. Not only am I the only white-skinned, blue-eyed person in the district, I'm also at least a head taller than anyone else I've seen. I think I'm the tallest person in the province. It would be difficult to escape notice for long.

Wei meets me at the door and escorts me to wherever I'm supposed to be that day. Although he's the official interpreter, Paik is the one who translates medical procedures to the staff for me. Paik is keen to pass along every technique we used at the 4077th. Sometimes he has a patient he wants me to work on, sometimes I lecture while he translates. I've been doing this for around 10 days now, and so far I've come off looking like a genius. I hope I can keep my streak going. Thank God for Charles; he brought all those ideas from Boston and Tokyo that Paik's never seen. I'm dredging up every lecture that I ever heard about heart conditions. I also plan to do a series on bowel resections. I'll describe the gastrectomy you pulled off, Beej, on that tank driver. Anything that anyone's ever tried or shown us, I'm going to relate. Then I'll move on to things that I've only read about.

Still, I'm bound to run out of techniques sooner or later. Then it's off to the work camp, I suppose, or someplace worse. Provided that they keep me around that long. With the long days and short calories, it's getting increasingly hard to keep my wits about me. Case in point: It was only my second day here, and I was still a little shagged from the train ride. I had just completed an end to end anastomosis. Paik was relaying the final instructions to the gathered group of surgeons when suddenly his voice cut out. I came to looking up at the ceiling, with Paik wiping blood out of my eyes. I must have hit my head on something going down. I panicked, thinking this was just the sort of excuse they needed to get rid of me, but Paik just said, "Easy, doctor. They understand that this is just a temporary condition." I wondered what condition I had that was temporary, and tried to calm down. Some of my professional colleagues hate me, but others are like Paik, more interested in medicine than politics. I think they realized by then that I had information of value, and weren't necessarily on a mission to railroad me, so to speak. In any case, they let Paik take me to the clinic.

On the way, OMF slipped me an apple! I was so shocked that I almost didn't have the wits to hide it in my pocket. Paik put me in an examining room, then had a short conference with Wei just outside the door. I was alone less than a minute, but I wolfed that apple in record time. It was small and wrinkled and tart, and was absolutely the best thing I ever tasted. I had barely tossed the stem from my hand and wiped my fingers when Paik swung the door wide (he'd propped it with his foot) and they both entered. I don't think they suspected anything. Almost every day now OMF slips me something -- a few dried sardines, half a sweet potato, something. It helps. I'm not losing weight quite so fast as I was. One day he stuck a couple of folded-up blank sheets of paper in my pocket. I liberated a pen and wrote my dad that night. I returned my letter to him the same way -- tucked into his pocket. I don't know what he did with it -- gave it to some guy to run down to the border and turn over to the Red Cross, maybe. He might have turned it over to the Chinese, who knows. But it's nice to have something to do with my time.

The paper is getting more visible; dawn must be breaking. In the growing light I can see that this letter is an awful mess. I hope you can make it out.

I miss everyone there terribly. I can see you all so clearly. You especially, Beej, but the others as well. Father Mulcahy is here, rational and calm, exuding wisdom and patience. Klinger is up to some crazy scheme. Sometimes to amuse myself I mentally review his various costumes, paging through them like Radar with his bubblegum cards. I like this one, that one's hideous, this one has good lines but is over the top. Colonel Potter is here, too, usually delivering some colorful expletive like "Mule fritters!" at a time when I really need to hear it. Charles is with me at night, during those long evenings. It's a ritual, how he moves, how he repeats the same actions every evening. First, the bathrobe and slippers. Then, the selecting of the album. This can take minutes. I glimpse each record as he pages through them, the lamplight flaring on the glossy covers. The hesitation, the thoughtful consideration. At length, the decision: Ah, yes. This one. The respectful slipping of the album from its sleeve, the careful placement of it on the platter. The lowering of the tone arm, and the scratchy emptiness before the needle finds the sound. Then he pulls out his chair the way he does, props his feet on his red cushion, and leans back, fingers laced across his stomach, his eyes closed. The music begins. For twenty minutes I'll hear it -- every nuance, every note, every movement of the piece. Charles and I listen from beginning to end. Then, the music stops. Charles lifts down his feet and leans forward to catch the needle before it hits the run-out groove. The record is reversed. The ritual begins again. I think I've spent more hours listening to this remembered music than I ever did consciously back when I had access to the actual recordings. But it's a tremendous comfort to me, and gives me something to do when I'm all alone here, hour after hour in the dark.

When I really want to make myself miserable, when I can stand it, I think about Margaret. I remember the perfume she wears. I stand next to her in surgery and feel the familiar slap, slap, slap of instruments into my palm, always in time and never too late, and often as not anticipated before I call for them. I see her walking across the compound, her hair blazing in the sun like an aureole of gold. In the midst of that almost painful brilliance, her cool blue eyes, like the clearest sky you can imagine on a cloudless summer day, like a refreshing lake. I make up fantasies about her, happy little stories where everything turns out well. She marries a wealthy business man, and they have four children and move to California, where they visit frequently with you and Peg. She gets promoted to Colonel and reorganizes medical units throughout Asia. She goes to Tokyo and dances the night away with handsome service men, wearing a gown so daring that the silkworms who gave up their cocoons for it are shivering with embarrassment.

I've made up my mind that I'll likely never see any of you again. It's too dangerous here, and life is cheap. I don't know what my official status is, or whether I even have an official status. Did SL turn in my dog tags? If so, did he report me as captured, or killed? If the latter, I could be a walking dead man. I don't think Paik would want me killed, but he's only a doctor and might not be able to prevent it. And I think OMF is already running enough risks on my behalf.

All things considered, dying wouldn't be so bad. I mean, sure, I'd prefer to go home and go fishing with my dad and lie around with a half-naked woman popping peeled grapes into my mouth, but it's not the worst crime in the world if that doesn't happen. I've done a lot of good over here. Not as much as I've hoped to at times, but enough to feel that I've been true to my Hippocratic Oath. I've helped a lot of people. I try to remember that, when I start to worry about what might happen to me. And I think, it's not such a bad legacy. I can be content with it.

And another thing, Beej -- this is important. I know how you like to consider yourself responsible for things even when there's no way in hell you really are responsible for them. So I'm telling you straight -- my getting captured is not your fault. I know you. You're probably sitting around beating your breast about how you went to get a manicure in Seoul and as a result your best friend got sent to the front. That is bullshit. I mean technically, sure, that happened, but it wasn't you who was responsible. It was Battalion Aid, first off, being so inconsiderate as to have one of their surgeons killed. It was Potter who passed the word along, and decided that we couldn't wait. But most of all it was my own decision to remain behind when Bob Rackley got hurt. No one decided that but me. I think the private would have died anyway, but Lewis certainly bought it because of me. I'll have his death on my conscience for the rest of my life. So if I don't make it back, in a weird kind of way it sort of balances the books. I want you to believe that. And in no namby-pamby, half-accepting sort of way, either. This wasn't your fault, Beej. Believe it.

I don't want you to worry about me. I want you to carry on. I want you to be as brave and effective as I know you are. Use your common sense, stay out of trouble. Go home to Peg and Erin. That's the thing I think about most. If you don't get this letter for months, because it's had to follow you across the Pacific because you got shipped out, that would be the best news in the world to me. You need to rejoin your family. You need to escape this earthly manifestation of hell. That's my hope, the thing that keeps me sane. If I can imagine you -- you and Margaret and Potter, and everyone else at the 4077th -- going about your daily business, working and joking and eating in the mess tent -- that's my anchor, something to hook my sanity into so it doesn't float away. I want you, all of you, to be as happy and complete as you can be. I look from here into that distant window where I had the best friends in the world, and I think it will be all right. I may never get back there, but at least something I did in my life had some meaning. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

The light is growing rapidly. I'm going to have to close. Beej, stay safe. I want you to get home for me. Don't do anything more heroic than what you do already, working to save that endless stream of kids. And also, just once, I'd like you to wear your argyle socks instead of just washing them. Wear them under your greens. It cheers me up to think about you walking around in civilian socks, providing that little bit of rebellion that I'm no longer there to do. Give my love to Margaret. Tell her I'm sorry for all those times that I was such a jerk. Maybe, if her memory of me has faded sufficiently, she'll believe you. But if she barks "Hah!" right in your face, that would be nice, too. She never backs down, and I admire that about her. Among all the things I miss, fencing with Major Houlihan comes near the top of the list.

Goodbye, Beej. If I could have gone through the whole world, I could never have found a better friend or brother. I am so fortunate for that. You made it bearable -- you still do, even though you're far away and will never know it. I love you, Beej. I think you know it, but I wanted to say the words.

Give my best to everyone at the 4077th. Your friend always,

Hawkeye


	4. After Words

**4. After Words**

Hawkeye's letter stirred such a variety of emotions that BJ thought he would burst. Relief, first and foremost, that his friend was alive -- or had been alive a mere two and a half weeks ago, if BJ counted on his fingers right. He felt compassion for Hawkeye's plight, and horror at the things he'd experienced. But through it all rose an overwhelming anger. Such a deep, complete rage that BJ was glad there wasn't anyone in the room he wanted to kill, because he probably would have done so, and then some.

BJ hadn't been able to read past the part where Hawkeye had told him that it wasn't his fault. The words stopped in his throat and he stared at the page, now an indistinguishable blur. Margaret had tried to pick up for him, as she had helped now and again to puzzle out a particularly illegible phrase, but she was in worse shape than BJ. She got through the next sentence and then she, too, faltered. 

Potter came around the desk and gently pried the letter from BJ's hands. In a voice husky with emotion, he read haltingly through the final paragraphs. When Potter lowered the letter, the silence was deafening.

For a while no one spoke. Margaret's shoulders shook to soundless sobs. At length Winchester straightened. "Colonel, what must we do?"

Potter wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and replaced his glasses. "I need to show this letter to the war crimes division. Get someone looking into this pronto. I'll call General Embry -- just as soon as I'm able to speak properly. And we need to pass along this list of the other POWs as quickly as possible."

Winchester indicated the slip of paper on Potter's desk. "Are you going to read that one as well?"

BJ looked up blearily. He'd forgotten about the slip of thin paper that had fallen out when he'd opened the envelope. 

Potter picked it up and looked at it. "It's in Korean." He unfolded the paper, and bobbed his eyebrows. "There's another letter to Hunnicutt inside."

BJ vaulted from his chair and snatched it up. With disappointment he realized he didn't recognize the handwriting. The writing was small, written in blue ink with a fine pen. He skipped down to the signature, and got a little shock of surprise. 

"It's from Dr. Paik." BJ held up the letter and steadied his voice.

"Dear Dr. Hunnicutt,

Permit me to express my profound regret and deepest apologies for how Dr. Pierce has been treated since his detainment. When I compare his experience with my own considerate treatment at your hands, I am filled with grief and shame. Dr. Pierce's condition is very poor. He is about 13 kilos underweight and has been beaten numerous times. He arrived with several fractured ribs, a possible fracture of the left zygomatic arch (which I have not been allowed to x-ray to confirm), and lacerations on his wrists from being chained. He also received a minor head injury as a result of a fall. These wounds are now healing, as are his many contusions. He has a low-grade fever which may be due to his injuries or to the damp cell in which they house him at night. I have been trying to get him moved to the hospital to avoid pulmonary complications. My superiors maintain that there is inadequate security here. Why this excessive need for security I do not know, but they keep Dr. Pierce guarded at all times. I have suggested restraints as a means to bring him inside. I do not like this solution, but I may have to act on it for his own safety. My superiors are considering it.

I have said that Dr. Pierce is always guarded, so we cannot speak freely. I have been directed to find out what medical procedures Dr. Pierce knows. This is easy for me. I simply ask Dr. Pierce to demonstrate some procedure that I know he knows. I hope that this will convince my superiors of his value and perhaps lead to better treatment. My colleagues ask him questions, also, but he has handled all inquiries admirably. Perhaps we are playing the game too well. I tried to make his illness an excuse for his release, but my superiors refused. I think they want him to show us as many new procedures as possible. Also, they may be reluctant to release him in this very poor condition. Unfortunately he is on a very inadequate diet, so his recovery is slow. I have tried to increase his rations, but for now must supplement his allotment from my own portion. 

If you are wondering how I came to be here, it is quite simple. Two of my comrades who stole supplies from you recognized me as I left your camp in the company of the MPs. They followed me to the prison camp where, disguised as guards, they reported that a transport truck had overturned and the injured prisoners inside had requested a doctor from their own country, per the Geneva Convention. I was released into their custody and soon crossed the border, traveling through Kangwon-do province to Pyongyang. Later we moved south to Songnim to avoid the bombs. That is where we are now, a large brick structure in the center of town. Two weeks ago my superiors ordered me to interrogate a captured American doctor. They must have had some doubts as to his identity. They chose me to test him because I am a surgeon who speaks English. I did not know that it was Dr. Pierce until I saw him on the train. I have told my comrades only that I had seen him before and know of his reputation, but that I do not know him personally. I have not read his letter because I need to know nothing about it in case I am questioned. I have good trust in the people who will bring this letter to the International Red Cross at Changdan. Therefore I will sign my name.

With sincere regards,

Syn Paik"

BJ lowered the letter. 

 "He sounds like a remarkable man, this Dr. Paik," said Charles. "He's certainly going out of his way to help Pierce."

"Pierce and Hunnicutt once went out of their way to help him," Potter answered. 

BJ felt weak inside. "I had no idea that our help would turn out to have such a personal impact on Hawkeye's survival."

Charles snorted. "Sort of a reversal of that old cliché `no good deed goes unpunished.'"

"Amen to that," said Father Mulcahy. "But I'm puzzled as to who exactly this Dr. Paik is and what his relationship is to Hawkeye."

Potter answered. "Dr. Paik was slightly injured when our forces captured an enemy aid station, and was brought here for treatment. He had studied in Chicago, but was so impressed with our latest advances that he wanted to stay and learn more. As usual, Pierce and Hunnicutt tried to pull a fast one. They made up phony transfer papers assigning a Dr. Cho Hwan-ho to the 4077th."

"Oh, I remember Dr. Cho!" Mulcahy cried. "Now I know who you mean. He was here about a week before they ... took him away."

 "Yes. It was Major Houlihan who saw through the scheme." Potter fixed his eyes kindly on her. "You realize, Major, that if you hadn't blown the whistle on Dr. Paik, alias Cho, he wouldn't have been on hand to help Hawkeye now."

Margaret's voice was thick from crying. "I was only doing my duty."

"Well, you did a fine job that time, as always." Potter turned. "Klinger, I want you to get on the horn. Try to locate Colonel Stockhelm. Tell him what we've got going on and try to get him up here. If you can locate General Embry, ring him through."

Klinger stood. "Yes, sir."

"And here." He shuffled through Hawkeye's letter and removed a single page. "Take this list of POWs and start contacting the various units. Try to get the names of these fellows back to their respective lands of origin as quickly as possible."

"Right away, sir." Klinger took the page and left.

"I still don't understand," said Mulcahy. "Hawkeye writes as if OMF -- Our Mutual Friend? -- is a different person from Dr. Paik, but Dr. Paik's letter indicates that he is the one who, at least primarily, is helping Hawkeye."

BJ said, "I think Hawkeye didn't want to write anything that might get Paik into trouble. I think he invented OMF to get Paik off the hook in case his letter was intercepted."

Potter nodded. "He'll be bunking with Pierce in the jail if they realize he's running uncensored letters across the border."

"Of course," said the priest. "And the thing for Sparky's wrist ..?"

"Paik's watch," BJ answered. "That's the clincher that Syn Paik and OMF are one and the same." BJ stood. "Colonel, I'd like to call Hawkeye's father and tell him the news. As to how much I tell him ..." His heart sank at the thought of it.

"It's a tough assignment, son," said Potter. "Do you want me on hand?"

BJ couldn't imagine how he would relay some of the things in his friend's letter to Hawkeye's sole surviving parent. He nodded. "I'd appreciate it, Colonel."

"Well, that can wait a bit, anyway," said Potter. "Klinger's got the phone tied up just now, and it's the middle of the night back home. We can leave Pierce Senior in the dark for a few more minutes, assuming that he's probably asleep now anyway."

BJ stared at the tattered letter in his hands. "Or not."

"Whatever," said Potter firmly. "Let's get the official channels rolling first, and get the word out on these other missing men. Their families and friends are going to be just as worried about them as we were about Pierce."

"Were?" BJ shook the letter in Potter's face. "It sounds like he's in hell right now. That is, if he hasn't already starved or been beaten to death."

Potter stopped him with his piercing stare. "I understand how you feel, Hunnicutt, but we have got to use official channels. It's not like we can just drive up to Songnim and get him. That's one hundred miles into enemy territory, at least."

BJ clenched his fist. "But we know where he is!"

"Knowing where he is and getting him out are two completely different animals," said Potter. "The only kind of rescue I've ever heard of this far behind the lines is a snatch pick-up. They use it for downed airmen, where the stranded man climbs into a harness and is hoisted into a helicopter. That won't work for Pierce unless Paik can somehow get him to an open field at some prearranged time." 

"Then let's ask him to do it!" BJ paced tightly in his anxiety. "We must be able to get a message back to him somehow."

"I'll have Klinger try to trace the origin of the letter," said Potter. "But you have to be aware that writing to Paik could well endanger his position or even his life. And although Paik has been very forthcoming so far, he might hesitate to stage an actual prison break."

"But I'm sure he wants Hawkeye returned."

"It certainly seems that way, but it's more likely that he's trying to get his name added to the list of prisoners to exchange as part of Operation Little Switch."

"But that's already underway," BJ pointed out. "Given the traditional pace of negotiations, I can't see the North Koreans suddenly adding names now."

Potter placed his hand on BJ's arm. "Hunnicutt, there are folks who are experts in this sort of thing. Let's apprise them of the situation and let them generate a plan of action. They won't just do nothing, I promise you."

BJ turned away, too frustrated to speak.

"Colonel," Mulcahy ventured, "where exactly is Songnim?"

For the next few minutes the group used Potter's wall map to trace Hawkeye's rail journey through the mountains and up the Taedong river toward Pyongyang, the North Korean capital. 

"There's a major airfield about ten miles south of Pyongyang," said Potter. "That's a favorite target for our B-26s and is heavily defended. Still, that's fairly close to Songnim. We should have good reconnaissance information for that area. Maybe our folks could identify a possible pick-up site." He pondered. "I don't know the practicalities of carrying out such a mission. None of the horses I ever rode had wings."

During the map-reading interval, Margaret had collected herself somewhat. She now spoke up. "Colonel, why do you suppose they moved Hawkeye to this special hospital?"

"I'm not sure. They do occasionally separate prisoners from each other, rather than keeping them in a camp. Remember, North Korea never signed the Geneva Convention." 

"As if that isn't appallingly obvious!" Charles sputtered. "These people are so far from the Geneva Convention that they'd probably explode upon contact with Swiss cheese!"

"That's not what I meant," Margaret said. "It was strange how that one officer took him off the front lines so suddenly."

Potter said slowly, "They may have been trying to get him out of harm's way."

"Ah, of course!" Charles rolled his eyes. "Anyone can see that keeping Pierce safe from bodily harm was certainly their top priority."

"You're not following me, sir," Margaret persisted. "So many things in Hawkeye's account don't add up. The sudden appearance of this officer, then Hawkeye's removal from the train instead of going with the rest of the prisoners to the camp. And Dr. Paik's comment about the excessive security. There's something strange going on, Colonel."

Potter fell silent. Thoughtfully he perched on the edge of his desk. To BJ's surprise, the old soldier looked guilty. He began heavily, "I wasn't going to tell you this."

There was no surer way of arresting everyone's attention than having Potter utter the preceding sentence. BJ listened anxiously.

"I set something up a while back," Potter continued, "when it looked as if Colonel Stockhelm wouldn't be able to help us. I wanted some surer way of finding out if Pierce had been captured than waiting for his name to come out in _Pravda_ one of these months."

BJ was mystified. "What did you do?"

Potter stared at the floor. "I called in Lieutenant Colonel Flagg."

"Flagg?" Charles swelled with indignation. "That imbecile? Colonel, for heaven's sake, why?"

"That moron thinks everyone's a Communist," BJ seconded, "including Hawkeye."

Potter raised a hand against the storm of objections. "I admit that the man is several cups short of a tea set, but the fact is he's one of the few people I know who has connections with the other side. I asked Flagg to sniff around and see if he couldn't find out if and where Pierce was being held. It looks as if some of his questions might have filtered up to the right ears. I can't help but notice that this North Korean officer showed up only two days after I turned Flagg loose. The incidents could be related."

"Let me understand," said Charles. "Did you offer the North Koreans a deal?"

Potter nodded. "All the medical supplies Embry could spare, in exchange for Pierce."

Charles exchanged a look with BJ. "Judging from what I've just heard, the North Koreans should have jumped at the opportunity."

"That's what I was hoping," said Potter. "But it seems they only jumped half way. I feel as if I'm responsible for that appalling train ride. I won't be able to look Pierce in the face, assuming that I do get to see him again."

"What you're responsible for," said Charles strongly, "is getting Pierce off the front lines where he was a target for every North Korean conscript with a grudge -- not to mention an occasional target for our own artillery." 

Potter sighed. "Well, let's hope that my interference did that much good, anyway. My heart is right down in my boots."

Klinger pushed open the door. "Colonel, I have General Embry on the line."

Potter stood. "Fine. Patch it through. Hunnicutt, can I borrow Pierce's letter for a few minutes? I'll return it as soon as possible."

Numbly BJ nodded. 

"And Klinger," Potter continued, "see if you can dig up someone who can translate the first part of Paik's letter. It's probably just delivery instructions, but we may as well get all the information we can."

"Yes, sir." 

BJ and the others shuffled out the door while the colonel picked up his phone. The door closed on Potter's courteous greeting. BJ stood in Klinger's office a moment, feeling lost. There was so much to be done, and he felt as if he wasn't able to do any of it. Whereas he wanted to rush off to Hawkeye's rescue, he was obligated to wait for the United States Marines, or the Air Force, or whoever Embry decided was best equipped for the job. Whoever it was, it wouldn't be a doctor named BJ Hunnicutt. BJ ground his teeth.

"Hunnicutt," said Charles at his shoulder, "what do you say to opening the Officer's Club a tad early this evening? I could certainly use a restorative beverage of some kind."

"Hear, hear," said Father Mulcahy. "We could all benefit from a round of sustenance after such an emotionally exhausting afternoon. And our colleagues will want to hear the news as well. Hawkeye is alive! That statement alone will work wonders on revivifying this camp."

BJ felt his heart sink, in Potter's words, down to this boots. "And what will they think when they learn the rest?"

"You must use your own judgment about what to relay, of course," said the priest. "But there is hope again. In spite of all that we've heard to dismay us, my heart has been freed of a heavy burden. We must have faith that Hawkeye will be delivered from his present circumstances and returned to us safely."

BJ relented. "I'll drink to that." He noticed Margaret looking hesitant. "Margaret?"

She looked startled, then took a step back. "You go ahead. I'd rather be alone just now."

"No." BJ took her arm firmly. "We're going to get through this together."

"Of course we are," said Charles.

"Indeed," said Mulcahy. "All of us."

BJ turned toward Klinger, who had gone back to sorting the mail now that Potter was using the phone. He placed a hand on the busy clerk's shoulder, gaining his attention. "If any letter was ever more appreciated ..." he began.

Klinger's eyes grew moist. "Now at least I know what I've been looking for all these weeks. Don't worry, Captain. I'll keep my eyes peeled for any more big square letters from North Korea."

BJ smiled. "Thanks." Taking Margaret's arm, he escorted her out the door.

* * *

Charles's drinking session went long, with everyone in camp crowding into the O Club for news and updates, provided periodically by Klinger as Potter persistently bulled his way through the brass. The crowd grew even more animated when they learned that the Green Dragon outfit was receptive toward carrying out a rescue mission, provided that they could get support from someone on the ground. BJ immediately started drafting a reply to Paik, just in case the mission went off. He kept Pierce's letter handy; he and Margaret must have read it six times between them. BJ wasn't sharing it with anyone else, but just the sight of that blotchy paper was enough to kindle the compassion and ire of Pierce's many friends.

By twenty-one thirty hours Charles had had enough. Extricating himself from the mob, he made a mandatory visit to the latrine, then headed toward the Swamp. The buzz of voices from the bar followed him across the darkened compound. Charles tucked his chin into his scarf and his hands into his pockets. Technically Spring had sprung, but it didn't feel like it yet. He walked quickly through the nippy air, then pushed open the door to the Swamp.

It was dark inside. Tuck and Langley had joined the others in the club. Charles switched on the central light, then snapped on the smaller lamp over his bed. He lit a fire in the stove, then shed his coat and scarf. He looked around at his familiar things, the only reliable sources of comfort in this godforsaken wasteland: his bathrobe and slippers, the red velvet cushion, the tea service, his record player with its attendant stack of civilized sound, awaiting his hand to be called into existence.

The ritual, Pierce had called it. Thoughtfully Charles dressed for the evening. Though the other half of the room was dark, he could almost imagine Pierce sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him. Which Pierce had never done. To the best of Charles's knowledge, he and Pierce had ignored each other to the extent that they were able. Only tonight he felt eyes upon him, almost as if Pierce was somehow watching him from that dismal tomb in which they had imprisoned him. Heartbreaking. Charles gave an involuntary shudder.

Automatically he reached for the tea pot, then stopped. Pierce wouldn't have tea in prison. True, he'd never sought it out when it was available, preferring that vile concoction of his own brewing. But there was something wrong about preparing his evening tea the same as usual, when Pierce was barely surviving on a bowl of rice gruel per day.

Dressed now in his robe and slippers, Charles automatically began to leaf through his albums. Shostakovich, Mahler, Bach, Haydn, Mozart. Old friends. All of the pieces instantly leaped to mind the moment he turned up their titles. This must be how Pierce heard them. Charles paused at _Kindertotenleider_. He closed his eyes. Softly the piece began to play. It started with the opening lament of the oboe and bassoon, their compelling voices weaving about one another. Yes, it was possible to hear the music without listening to it. Come to think of it, Beethoven was probably past master at this technique.

When Charles opened his eyes, he found the light jarring, soft as it was. Releasing the album, he snapped off his bedside lamp, then the central light. Darkness descended on the Swamp, but only for a moment. The firelight assumed prominence, illuminating the place with a flickering glow. Too bright. Charles opened the door and beat out the fire he'd just lit. He shut the grill with a squeak. The Swamp was now dark.

Charles stood a moment, letting his eyes readjust. In the newly created night, he could see the embers in the stove throwing off a reddish gleam between the narrow bars. Light seeped through the seams of the canvas walls, enough for Charles to make his way across the room to his desk. A glimmer on the wood revealed the central cubbyhole. Charles felt inside, removing the paper and pen that he knew were ready to hand there. Charles set the paper out on his desk. He stared intently, but couldn't see it. Had he made things too dark?

Charles looked around. No, he could make out the edge of his cot, the outline of the stovepipe, and the boxy shapes of the shelves lining the walls. True, they were only darker areas in the blackness, but it should be sufficient light. Or at least, equivalent to the illumination of a stone cell that had only a slit under the door and a tiny metal grill to let in moonlight. Charles turned back to his desk. He found the edges of the paper with his fingers. There. The stationery didn't look like pale smoke. It was more like a half-guessed rectangle in the gloom. Still, that was enough to begin. 

Taking pen in hand, he wrote an experimental greeting: _Dear Mother_. If he concentrated, he could almost see it. He tried a second line: _The weather is much improved, but it's still far from balmy. As long as he used his hands to keep track of the edges of the paper, he could guess where the darker spider track of his writing crossed the page. It was an intense exercise. Charles shook his head. Pierce must have eyes like a cat._

A burst of muted chatter permeated the tent's cloth walls. Charles paused, but no footsteps approached the Swamp. Carefully he placed the paper and pen back in the cubbyhole, then drew back his chair. He seated himself cross-legged on the floor between the desk and his cot. A chill draft quickly made him a target. Well, that was certainly appropriate for this simulation. Leaning against the edge of the desk, Charles closed his eyes. Softly the strains of _Kindertotenleider_ began to play in his mind. Charles sighed, and let the piece commence.

* * *

Margaret slumped over the tiny table across from BJ, her chin propped against her palm to hold up her head. She had almost drifted off when BJ's voice startled her out of her stupor.

"Okay, here i' is." His voice was slurred from numerous drinks. Fortunately everyone else was so drunk at this point, or so deep in their own discussions, that no one was paying them any more attention.

"Go," Margaret mumbled.

BJ held up his much-worked letter, squinting to focus on the parts between the cross-outs. "Dear Dr. Paik, thank you so much for taking care of our dear friend Hawkeye..."

Our dear friend Hawkeye. Margaret glanced at the letter that she'd begun to her "dear friend Hawkeye." It was written on a cocktail napkin that was currently soaking up the various dribbles of scotch and beer that spattered the table. The blue ink had bled into the paper from each of these minor wells. 

"Dear Hawkeye," her letter ran. After that several sentences were crossed out. "We all miss you." That was rank. "I'm so sorry to hear --" That was pathetic. There was nothing to say that wouldn't be absolutely insultingly ridiculous. And there was no way she could say anything meaningful anyway, since the enemy might intercept the letter and BJ had told her that they must be very careful about what they write. 

Oh yeah, BJ. He was still droning on. Margaret refocused her attention.

"...difficult," BJ was saying, "but I hope not impossible. If you would agree, at the next full moon, to take our friend for a walk ..."

Full moon, hah. That was assuming they could even attempt a rescue at night. Unless Paik put out signal lights, how would the pilot even find them? They might be better off by day -- but then they'd have to get past the interpreter and the guard. Guards. No, BJ was right. A night rescue was their only option. Did Paik have keys to the jail? Because if he didn't, they could just forget the whole thing. 

She looked down at her letter. A spot of moisture had hit the end of Hawkeye's name, so the final "e" had become a blurred semi-circle, like a black eye on the paper. Margaret covered her eyes.

"Well?" BJ asked her.

She jumped. "What?"

He blinked at her. "Do you think it will work?"

"Oh, yeah. I's great."

"Really?"

Was BJ swaying as he sat, or was her vision skewed? Margaret pushed herself to her feet. "Time to call it a night."

BJ looked concerned -- at least, the watery outline of him looked concerned. "Can you find your way in the dark?"

"Oh, sure!" Margaret waved him off, nearly upsetting her balance. She slammed her palm against the table to regain it.

BJ looked unconvinced. "All right. Be careful."

Margaret gave him a thumb's up and patted his shoulder, then left her hand there to brace herself as she maneuvered past him toward the door. The anonymous clamor of the O Club throbbed in her ears as she wobbled by, past her worried, gossiping nurses, past the knots of men who were plotting rescues and revenge. She held up a hand to ward off the door jamb, and stumbled into the night.

The brisk air struck her face. Cold. Shit. She fumbled for the zipper to her jacket, but there was no way in hell she was going to get that sucker zipped, not in her current state. She stuck her hands in her pockets and hunched over to partly shield herself from the wind. The cold ate an uncomfortable line down the center of her belly. How would it be in a train, with the air whining past her hour after hour? These uniforms, even when zipped, weren't all that warm. Without any gloves, her hands would freeze. How much warmer could it be, huddled in a group of people equally cold. What did it feel like?

She staggered towards her tent, wanting only to lie down. Lie down and forget all those things that Hawkeye had said. Forget the brutality and the horror. Forget the hopelessness. Forget that all his fantasies about her didn't involve him. Forget about how much that bothered her, although she couldn't have said why.

Uh oh, emergency. She teetered past her door to the row of bushes behind her tent and fell to her knees. A bitter rendition of her past few drinks came up to spatter the ground there. With a fumbling hand, Margaret plucked a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her nose and mouth. Lovely, she jeered at herself. You're so in control. Such a fine example for your nurses.

She backed away from her vile contribution to the flora and sat shivering against the side wall of her tent. The world was spinning in nauseating circles. She wanted to be sick again, but didn't think she had anything left to bring up. None of them had eaten dinner -- not Charles, not BJ, not even Colonel Potter. Maybe Father Mulcahy did. He always handled crises better than other people. But he was a priest and Margaret was only a nurse whose life hadn't turned out the way she'd once thought it would. Where were the kids? Where was the love? Was that so much to ask, one lousy man who wasn't a total dirtball or screw-up or weakling? 

Hawkeye's face floated before her. No, she didn't want to think about him. It was horrible to think about him. There was nothing to do about it except to know that he was in this horrible place far from help. She imagined his eyes fixed on her. They were very blue and had a pleading look. He was watching her hair in the sunshine, the way he'd written about it in his letter. Margaret must have read that paragraph ten times. A painful brilliance, he'd said. An aureole of gold. Golden. Brilliant. Yup, that's me. Margaret Houlihan, brilliant glow.

A footstep startled her out of her mental meandering. A voice floated through the revolving void. "Did you take a wrong turn?"

BJ. How could he still be standing? How the hell had he found her? 

Margaret stirred. "I feel sick," she slurred. Then she shivered.

"I'm not surprised. Come on." BJ knelt and gathered her up. Instead of helping her to rise, he got to his feet, cradling her in his arms like a child. How the hell could he do that without falling over?

Margaret put her arms around his neck as he headed for her door. It was nice to feel his masculine strength, to breathe in the delicious scent of a man. Too long. Too long without men. If only the wind wasn't so damn cold. "Don't feel well."

"I figured that." BJ plucked the door open, then jammed it with his foot and kicked it wider. He carried Margaret inside, shuffling carefully in the dark. He bent forward, and Margaret felt a blanket at her back. Reluctantly she let go of BJ's neck and collapsed onto her cot. It whirled in sickening circles.

BJ snapped on the bedside lamp. Margaret put up a hand to block the light. "I'm gonna be sick."

"I have a trashcan ready."

"Oh, good."

The world kept spinning. She was sure that it had faded out for a minute, but the next minute it was back again. The world had BJ in it. He was sitting in a chair near her bed watching her. How long had he been here, a few seconds or an hour? How would she know?

BJ's words reverberated in her tortured world. "You'd better get some sleep."

But Margaret had temporarily crossed over into consciousness again. Or semi-consciousness. Whatever this weird dream state was, where every time she closed her eyes, there was Hawkeye, watching her with that same helpless expression that had been on BJ's face when he'd first read Hawkeye's letter.

She said sluggishly, "Do you think he meant all those things he wrote?"

"Every syllable."

"I never told him anything important."

"He understood."

"Yeah, he did. I didn't even wan' him to understand an' he understood."

She heard the warmth in BJ's voice. "He's like that."

Margaret felt the tears start. She laid the back of her hand across her eyes to shield them. "He wrote such nice things about me. I never said anything nice to him ever."

"I'm sure you did."

Margaret sniffled. "Well, once maybe."

"Don't worry about it," said BJ. "I'm sure Hawkeye knows how you feel about him."

"Does he?" Margaret swallowed her tears. "Then he knows more than I do."

The sickening spinning intruded again. Through it Margaret mumbled, "Why'd he have to get caught, anyway?"

"It's better than the alternative."

"Yes." Margaret turned her face to the wall. "Better than the alternative."

The world was fading again. A final phrase slipped through. "Sleep, Margaret."

Margaret slept.

* * *

April 19, Sunday morning

Dear Peg,

I'll try to make this letter coherent, but I'm still in a state of shock. After five weeks and three days, we finally got word from Hawkeye. He's alive and is a prisoner of the North Koreans. They're holding him (or were two weeks ago) in a jail near a teaching hospital in a town called Songnim, not too far south of the North Korean capital. A doctor friend of ours smuggled a letter from him across the border. Colonel Potter is pursuing a couple of different plans to try to get him out. We're all anxious for this to happen quickly, as the conditions there sound pretty appalling. To give you an example, they transported Hawk and some other POWs north by rail like animals -- sheep in this case, literally lambs to the slaughter. They traveled for two days and nights in a locked box car with no food or water. He's hardly eaten since his capture and says he's lost twenty pounds, although the doctor who wrote us thought it was more. I can't imagine Hawkeye even twenty pounds lighter. The first thing that strikes you when you meet Hawkeye is _not his urgent need to lose weight. _

The only good news in the letter (apart from his being alive, which is a tremendous relief) is that one of the doctors at the hospital knows him. It turns out that this doctor, whom Hawkeye calls "Our Mutual Friend" (OMF to protect his identity), escaped from one of our prison camps after we'd treated him here at the 4077th. He had been captured the same way Hawkeye was -- working in a forward aid station that was taken during an enemy attack. The major difference between their experiences (apart from OMF's treatment here at the 4077th) is that the South Koreans aren't too rigorous about guarding their prisoners. It turns out that most of the Communist POWs want to stay here anyway -- well over fifty percent. I've heard figures as high as ninety. But the North wants them back, so their fate has become a major bargaining chip at the peace talks. 

Still, it was fairly easy for Paik (his real name) to slip away with some outside help. But Hawkeye is carefully guarded. Paik mentioned in his note (he included his own letter along with Hawkeye's) that the security for Hawkeye is unusually tight. We're hoping that this is a sign that they'd be willing to trade him for medical supplies. This was a scheme that, unknown to us, Colonel Potter had set in motion shortly after Stockhelm's briefing. Do you remember Colonel Flagg, from Intelligence? Well, Potter recruited him to get the word out to the North that we were willing to trade medical supplies for Hawkeye's release. This should have been a tempting offer. Hawkeye's own letter confirms their desperate need for supplies. I don't know why they're still holding onto him. Paik thought that perhaps they wanted to assure themselves of his identity, which could be the case, since his dog tags were taken from him during the attack. Paik also suggested that they might be waiting for his physical condition to improve. I hope not. We can improve his condition here far better than they can up there.

Thank God Potter isn't waiting for the North Koreans to act. He's been working on another plan to have a rescue team get Hawkeye out in a raid. It's a tricky mission because we'll need someone local to get Hawkeye to the rendezvous point, assuming that we can even make contact with them. Paik is the obvious choice, but we don't know if he could pull off a jail break, even assuming that he's willing. Failing that, we can hope that Hawkeye will be added to the prisoners being exchanged in Operation Little Switch. Potter thinks this is what Paik is trying to do. I don't think it's very likely that the North Koreans will return him that way. So far they haven't even officially acknowledged that they have him yet. We're getting word to them through Intelligence that we have proof. Maybe that will speed up his return. 

Learning that Hawkeye's alive has really been a shot in the arm for all of us. We're angry but we're energized. There's a firmness in everyone's step and a determined look on their faces. For the first few weeks after he disappeared there was a pall of mourning over the camp, almost exactly as if he had been killed -- which was pretty much what everyone thought, although we kept hoping for better. Then, when Klinger found his letter in yesterday's mail, morale picked up overnight. What am I saying? It was better within minutes, and even higher when we learned that the Green Dragon rescue unit was considering this mission. Everybody's talking about how we can get Hawkeye back. The still is overflowing with nickels. I think I mentioned the nickel that Father Mulcahy laid down during Hawkeye's (premature as it turned out, thank God) memorial service. Well, people have been adding nickels ever since. The still is packed to the brim with them, and the stand is overflowing. There are nickels lining all the shelves around Hawkeye's old bunk. Tuck just sweeps them to one side if they get in his way. He's very good natured about it. The windowsills at Rosie's Bar and the O Club are decorated with nickels, too. These nickels are often stolen, I guess by people who don't understand what they're for, but the patrons soon replenish them. Even the window ledges in OR are lined with nickels. It's as if everywhere you go around here, someone is giving a nickel in token of their thoughts about Hawkeye. Last night at the O Club we had nickels all over the floor when they kept getting knocked down from the juke box and the bar and the table tops. 

Honey, I hope the next time you hear from me I'll have some really good news -- that Hawkeye is back with us. I keep staring at the map in Potter's office, counting the miles to Songnim. When I look at the city, it's almost as if I can see Hawkeye there, locked in that tiny cell, spending hour after hour in the dark. I kept waking up last night, thinking that I couldn't breathe. I remember how Hawkeye hates closed-in places. 

And one more thing -- I'm wearing my argyle socks. Hawkeye particularly asked me to in his letter. I plan to wear them until he gets back. I hope this will be a short enough period of time that they won't fall apart on me. It seems the least I can do. Maybe somehow he'll feel across the miles how much we're all thinking and worrying about him. Maybe some of that concern will seep into his subconscious and give him additional strength. There's nothing more I can do or hope for, so I wear my nice socks and lay down nickels and hope like hell that he's going to be okay. It's little enough, I know. But it's all I can do.

Take care of yourself, my darling. Give Erin a hug and a kiss for me. I'll bring you up to speed as soon as anything further develops. 

All my love,

BJ

* * *

Sherman stared at the paperwork in his hands. He'd been staring at it off and on for the last two hours, and he still wasn't sure what to do about it.

There was a tap on the door. Sherman looked up to see Hunnicutt peering through the window. Well, it looked as if the Almighty was going to force his hand. Sherman beckoned the younger man inside.

Hunnicutt poked his head through the door. "Any news, Colonel?"

"Regarding Pierce? No."

"Nothing new from the Green Dragon unit?"

"Not since what I told you at lunch." Sherman waved him in. "Come in, Hunnicutt. Pull up a chair."

Hunnicutt complied. Sherman used the opportunity to take a good look at the MASH's senior surgeon. Despite the upsetting content of Pierce's letter, some measure of peace had been restored to the young doctor's face. Hunnicutt was still waiting -- not liking it, but waiting nonetheless. At least now he was waiting for further news from his friend, instead of news about that friend's death. It made a world of difference. 

Hunnicutt settled himself. "What's up?"

Sherman indicated the form on his desk. "I just received some new orders. Your transfer has been approved."

Hunnicutt blinked. "What transfer?"

"I thought you'd spent enough time in this hell hole. A couple of weeks ago I started asking around. Today I got the go-ahead to pursue a couple of options. Your choices include the 121st Evac and Tokyo General. The latter needs a couple of weeks to go through, although you should confirm it right away if you're interested."

Hunnicutt's jaw dropped. "Colonel, I can't leave _now."_

"I know the timing is awkward, son --"

"It stinks!" Hunnicutt leapt to his feet and paced in agitation. "How can I leave when we're on the brink of getting Hawkeye back? I have to be _here_, to get his letters when they come."

"We could read them to you over the phone, with your permission."

"Unless they follow me to Japan, which could add days. No, Colonel. I have to stay here until we find Hawkeye."

"That could take some time, son. Wouldn't you be more comfortable waiting for him at a posting a little farther from the front lines?"

"I'm sure I'd feel _worse." Hunnicutt rested his fingertips on Sherman's desk. "Do you think that I could actually enjoy a plush posting in Tokyo when Hawkeye is fighting rats for a few scraps of gruel?"_

Sherman sighed. "It's a common feeling, to want to suffer in common with a friend. Don't think I haven't noticed how little everyone is suddenly eating around here. The rats in _our_ garbage dump must be having the biggest party since somebody thought of putting bells on cats. But you have a duty to yourself and to your family to keep yourself fit. And _I_ have a duty, not to prolong your stay at a post that at times can be hazardous, not to mention emotionally draining." Sherman cut back the fire in his voice. "I enjoyed the benefit of Pierce's and your expertise for well over a year. You seemed satisfied with the arrangement and I didn't want to rock the boat. But the boat's been rocked. Pierce is gone. Even if we do get him back, they'd never reassign him here. As soon as he's fit to travel, Pierce's next destination is home. We have two new surgeons who are coming along, thanks to your help and Winchester's. Isn't it about time, son, that you started thinking about your own well being, and how a position farther from the front might be a comfort to your family?"

Hunnicutt had turned away, but his posture had softened from resentment to thoughtfulness. He automatically massaged the palms of his hands; every one of them was subject to "surgeon's cramp." Finally Hunnicutt muttered, "It feels like such a betrayal."

"I know," said Sherman, encouraged that Hunnicutt was at least considering it. "The timing's lousy, as I said. But Hawkeye wanted you to use your best judgment."

Hunnicutt faced him with a bitter smile. "Is this your way of trying to make sure that what happened to Hawkeye doesn't happen to me?"

"You bet it is," Sherman said strongly. "I have regrets enough to carry into my retirement years. The least I can do is to honor Hawkeye's wish for his best friend to go home in one piece. You were both long overdue for a transfer. In Pierce's case, I left it too late. I don't intend to make the same mistake with you."

Hunnicutt sank back into his chair, still rubbing his palms. He sat staring into space. Sherman let him chew it over.

At last the young surgeon met his eyes. "Colonel, I need to think this through."

"That position at Tokyo won't stay open long," Sherman warned.

"I know. I just," Hunnicutt shrugged helplessly. "I need a little time."

"That's fine, son. Sleep on it a day or so. Let me know what you decide."

* * *

April 19, night

Dear Peg,

Of all the crazy things to fall out of this mess, Colonel Potter has just now offered me a position at Tokyo General. Part of me wants to accept it, out of consideration to you and also because I really am sick of this place. It just isn't the same without Hawkeye here. Still, I can't help feeling that by doing so I'd be running out on him. It doesn't seem fair that when things are going the worst for him, I'd get transferred to the cushiest post a surgeon could hope for out here. Colonel Potter has given me a couple of days to wrestle with it. I don't know what to do. I'll let you know if I come up with any answers. Until then, I'm anxiously watching the mail and waiting for any news about the rescue mission. They've named it "Operation Nighthawk" in honor of Hawkeye. I hope it comes off soon.

All my love, darling,

BJ


	5. Operation Nighthawk

**5. Operation Nighthawk**

BJ was in the shower when the summons came. Over the sound of running water he heard the announcement: "Attention, attention. Captain Hunnicutt, you have another delivery from Songnim. Report to the colonel's office. Captain Hunnicutt, please report."

BJ bolted from the shower half rinsed. He pulled on his blue robe, never mind it clinging to his wet arms. Belting it around him, he wiggled into his slippers and flung himself out the door. As he raced toward the colonel's office, he saw Mulcahy and Charles burst from their tents and jog toward the central building. He arrived slightly before they did, and yanked open the door. 

Klinger wasn't at his post. BJ hurried through to Potter's office, where he found Potter, Klinger, and Margaret waiting for him. Margaret was dressed in her lab coat and had obviously just walked in from post-op. BJ was suddenly aware that he was one terrycloth layer away from naked, not to mention soaking wet. Automatically he checked to make sure that his robe was closed. Relieved to note that it was, he stepped forward eagerly. 

Potter handed him the letter. "It's the same writing as before," he said.

BJ glanced at it, noting the nearly identical direction, before tearing the envelope open. He could tell by feel that this letter was considerably shorter than the first. Which certainly proved to be the case, when he pulled only two sheets from the envelope. 

It was Hawkeye's writing. Except for the paper, which was thin like Paik's note, the letter had a normal appearance. No blotchy ink or crossed lines. BJ read aloud as the others gathered around.

Dear Beej,

This is my second letter to you. Since I have no way of knowing if any of these are getting through, I'll give you the low-down first. I'm an unwilling houseguest of the North Koreans. I may be in the town of Songnim, somewhere between Sariwon and Pyongyang. I hope you know where this is, because I sure as hell don't, but that's what the pilot on the train with me thought, and his guess should be pretty good. His name is Robert MaGarry and his navigator, William Deesland, was with him. I haven't seen them for almost a month, when they went on to the work camp while I stayed here. I'll jot down the names of the rest of the prisoners on the train with me at the end of this letter, if I can. I don't have much time.

I won't kid you, Beej. The first three weeks were rough. I don't want to go through all that again, even in writing. Besides, there isn't time. The good news is that conditions have improved. I'm writing this with an actual light in the room. That makes it dangerous. I have a few minutes before some guy who's helping me, I'll call him OMF (Our Mutual Friend), comes by and whisks this off to Letter-Letter Land. For all I know he could be carrying the pages to the hospital's tiled roof, folding them into paper airplanes, and lofting them toward the front lines. But I hope that at least one of my letters gets through, so you'll know I'm okay.

It seems that if you want to get treated semi-decently around here, you have to get really sick. I don't know why I didn't think of that before. Anyway, about ten days ago I came down with some kind of fever -- chills, lung involvement, the works. You remember Dr. Paik who passed through the 4077th. He got me through it. I'm still pretty weak, but I'm getting stronger. They feed me twice a day now, which is nice. They also moved me out of this miserable rat-hole (literally) where they'd kept me prior to my illness. I'm now a resident of the hospital. My new room comes fully equipped with an actual cot, a blanket, a bare 20-watt light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and its own set of leg irons. I find the leg irons under the bare bulb particularly evocative of the local ambiance. It took me a while to get used to them, but if you're sick enough I guess you can sleep through anything. Frank Burns did. This is the perfect setting for a round of good-cop/bad-cop, but no one has tried that with me yet. Instead, I daily get to hear all about the virtues of Communism. I think I'll pass.

The bad news is that my illness took me down another few pounds. I'm probably more than 30 pounds underweight at this point, but I'm only guessing. OMF was sneaking me food for a while, but he started looking pretty ragged and I told him to stop. He didn't altogether, but as I said they feed me twice a day now, so I don't need it as badly. Everyone is hungry here, Beej. It's hard to appreciate how much we have until you see people who have virtually nothing. Then our abundance begins to look obscene. The Chinese   "

The letter broke off abruptly. Beneath Hawkeye's final unfinished sentence was a postscript, added with a fine blue pen in a hand that BJ instantly recognized. It said only:

"Do not be alarmed, all is well. The courier is here and must leave now. I am sending this by rail so you will receive it quickly. Dr. Pierce is in the southwest wing of the hospital on the second floor, third room from the central stairs. There are only two guards in the building at night. Dr. Pierce should be strong enough to travel by the time you get this. Come quickly. I do not know when he might be moved. Bring bolt cutters.

-- OMF  
13 April 1953"

BJ felt his heart pounding. The letter was written just seven days ago. Only last week, Hawkeye was alive and writing this letter. 

Margaret said urgently, "Colonel, if there ever was a time to move, this is it." 

"Klinger," said Potter softly, "tell them what you found when you tried to trace back that first letter."

"Yes, sir. A Mr. Karris at the Red Cross in Seoul gets them from somebody up in Changdan, who gets them from some group that runs things across the border near there. Some folks in Panmunjom might be helping them, but he doesn't know for sure. And there's no way to know who the original courier might be."

"In other words," Charles said, "there's no return address."

Potter shook his head solemnly. "Not one that we can use."

Margaret slumped. "So there's no way that we can tell Paik when and where to meet us."

Potter's eyes looked bleak. "I'm sorry."

BJ had found out about the lack of usable return route when he'd tried to give Potter his letter to Paik the day before. But Paik's latest message sounded so urgent, he couldn't help asking, "Colonel, Paik gave us good instructions. Couldn't we put a man on the ground and have him go after Hawkeye, rather than having Hawkeye come to the chopper?"

"I don't know about that," said Potter. "You're talking about all kinds of extra risk, to Hawkeye as well as to the rescue team. I don't know if Embry will go for it."

BJ persisted. "Would it hurt to ask?"

Potter hesitated, then said, "Klinger, get General Embry on the line."

"I'm already dialing!" Klinger crashed through the doors to the outer office. 

BJ automatically started reading the letter again. It took him a moment to react to the sound of his name. "Huh?"

Charles looked irritated. "I _said, Hunnicutt, would you like to sit down before you fall down?"_

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you look ready to drop. Perhaps you'd be interested in securing some adequate clothing for yourself as well."

BJ glanced down. "Oh, yeah."

Klinger popped the door open. "I've got General Embry on the line, Colonel."

Potter reached for the phone. "Hunnicutt, let me see Paik's note on the second page."

BJ handed over the entire letter. 

"Fine. Now you might want to take Major Winchester's advice and get dressed." Potter picked up the phone. "General Embry, Sherman Potter ... Yes, you could say that we've had a recent development. Listen to this..."

* * *

BJ was having trouble keeping his hands still. Hands, hell. He couldn't keep his whole body still. Restlessly he prowled from one end of the Swamp to the other.

Charles was on duty in post-op along with Langley. Tuck was curled up on Hawkeye's bunk (BJ had mentally reverted to calling it "Hawkeye's bunk" after receiving his friend's first letter). The younger man was trying to read a journal, but BJ knew that his pacing was disturbing him. Well, that couldn't be helped. Besides, Margaret was pacing, too. Her official post for the evening was supposed to be the guest chair next to BJ's cot. BJ figured she'd actually sat on it for a grand total of ten seconds. It should have been comical, seeing the way they paced around and past each other, circling the central stove and switching direction at the last moment so they didn't bump into each other. Yet BJ couldn't quite bring himself to appreciate the humor. Restlessly he shook out his hands, trying to soothe his jangled nerves. 

Mulcahy was keeping vigil with them. He sat at Charles's desk with a Bible propped open on his knee. He actually seemed to be making progress on the sermon he was writing. BJ envied him. Tonight he couldn't keep his mind on anything except the rescue mission. The chopper was en route right now, coming in to Songnim from over the Yellow Sea. It was the 22nd of April. Operation Nighthawk had begun.

The mission called for a single agent to rappel down from the chopper to the rice paddies south of town, assisted by the light of a waxing moon. There he would rendezvous with two South Korean sympathizers who would guide him through town. The threesome were to make their way north through the orchards, then enter the town and move quickly to the hospital. BJ knew they were carrying picks for the leg irons, and bolt cutters and an acetylene torch in case that failed. They also carried chloroform to silence the hospital staff, although BJ was certain that they carried other, more deadly methods of ensuring silence as well. He didn't want to dwell on that aspect of the raid. He cringed at the thought that a doctor or nurse might be killed in the attempt to rescue Hawkeye.

Once Hawkeye was released, the party would retreat to a different location north of town, then light a beacon to guide the chopper in. The agent would climb a line back into the chopper, then work the hoist to bring up Hawkeye in a harness, it being a fair assumption that his broken ribs would not permit him to climb a rope. Then, before the moon set, the chopper would fly back over the sea to a waiting UN ship. Hawkeye would be free.

It seemed an incredibly risky plan, the more so because the Intelligence agent turned out to be Colonel Flagg. He'd apparently convinced the mission planners that his contacts with the local Korean agents were more important than putting an experienced man on the hoist. BJ was torn between admiring Flagg's audacity, and anxiety that Flagg would do something crazy that would jeopardize the mission. There was simply no way to tell. If Flagg let them down, he and Hawkeye would be stranded a hundred miles from help, with a lot of angry North Koreans between them and escape. 

Distressed by his thoughts, BJ whirled -- and collided with Margaret, who had just done the same thing.

"Sorry," he said automatically, his apology overlapping hers.

She held out her hands, which trembled slightly. "Do you believe this, BJ? I'm a nervous wreck!"

BJ smiled. "I think that's why Colonel Potter threw us out of his office."

"I can't believe it!" Margaret rubbed her arms briskly. "In ten or twelve hours, Hawkeye could be standing right here!"

"At which time we'll both be on the floor, unconscious from exhaustion. Hey!" He steadied her as she nearly tipped into the stove. "Take it easy."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Mulcahy called from his station at the desk.

"Pray," said BJ.

"Hit me over the head with a rock," said Margaret.

Mulcahy smiled. "I'll give both requests their due consideration."

"If the rock works for Margaret," said BJ, "will you hit me as well?"

"The Lord does work in mysterious ways," said Mulcahy, and turned back to his sermon.

* * *

Syn Paik walked slowly down the hospital corridor. His shoulders sagged, and his heart was low. So many days spent hoping, so many risks run, only to have it all be for nothing. He sighed and checked his watch. It was very late. Well, he was grateful that a debilitative patient had kept his mind engaged this evening. The improved prospect of his patient's recovery was the only solace Paik could find after his failure to protect Dr. Pierce.

Paik heard a soft footstep up the hall and lifted his eyes. He halted in pure amazement. A Caucasian man with his face blacked stood at the top of the stairs. He held a pistol leveled at Paik's chest. His bearing and equipment pronounced him to be a soldier, but his uniform was dark, nonstandard. Two other men wearing more normal clothes stood on the stairway behind him. They wore masks to disguise their features, but their eyes appeared to be Korean.

Paik blinked. The rescue team. Of course. Now that it was too late, they were here.

The man in front spoke harshly. "Make one move, and I'll make my move, and that will be the last move you'll ever make." 

Paik worked to parse the awkward sentence. By his accent the man was American. Perhaps he was undereducated. But in that case, why make him the spokesman for the party?

Paik responded softly, "I will make no moves against you."

"We're looking for the American doctor you're holding here," the man continued belligerently. "Take me right to where he is, and don't think for a minute that we don't know right where that is."

Paik paused. Was the man simple-minded? His speech was so convoluted, it made it difficult for Paik to understand him. Why didn't he do the sensible thing and let the others speak to him in ordinary Korean?

The man must have misinterpreted Paik's hesitation. He raised his pistol. "Take me there now, or I take you out now."

"Of course." Paik started to step forward, then caught himself. Slowly, in as non-threatening a manner as he could, he pointed toward the closed door almost next to him. "That's the room."

The soldier hesitated; he appeared to be counting. "I see," he said at last. "Door number three."

Paik remembered the instructions he'd written giving Dr. Pierce's location. Clearly this other man had seen them, too. Should he reveal himself as Dr. Pierce's ally? Perhaps not. He had no idea how the information would be received, or who might overhear it if he said so. 

The man gestured with his gun toward the door. "Open it."

"It is not locked." Paik stepped to the door and pushed it open. He reached inside and snapped on the electric switch. The hospital was one of the few buildings in town that had the luxury of electricity, courtesy of the generator in the basement.

"Stand back, Red," growled the soldier, "before I make you live up to that title in a way you'll regret."

Paik stepped back. The man walked quickly toward the open door. The two others moved forward to back him up. The one in front leveled his machine gun at Paik. Paik held very still. 

The American stopped at the open door, then whirled to confront Paik. "You lying bum! There's no one in there."

"I know," Paik said. "But that is the room where the American doctor was held. See? There is the chain where he was shackled to the wall."

The man made a brief circuit of the room, taking in the simple cot, now stripped, and the remaining length of the hated shackles. He strode out of the room, and held his pistol to Paik's chest. "All right, Commie. Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

The gun pressed into Paik's sternum, and he closed his eyes. But the strange, hostile man did not fire. "You're going to tell me," he said between his teeth, "where the American prisoner is now."

"He was here," Paik said, "until he recovered from his illness. Yesterday, an officer came and took him away."

The gun barrel dug in painfully. "Where did they take him?"

"I don't know. Somewhere to the south." 

The man loomed over him. "You expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth." Paik met his interrogator's eyes sorrowfully. "I don't know where they have taken him. I know only that he is gone."

For a moment Paik thought the man would fire anyway. Then, with an exclamation of disgust, he shoved Paik backwards into the opposite wall. Angrily he addressed the man nearest Paik. 

"Tie up this Commie with his own chain, and give him something to shut his lying mouth. You," he said to the other, "check the north wing, as quietly as possible. We'll meet you at the rendezvous point in four minutes. Move!"

The man behind Paik strong-armed him into Dr. Pierce's former room. How fitting, Paik thought, that he should end up wearing those same chains. In some karmic way, he and Dr. Pierce seemed  fated to be captives of one another. It was a strange business, war. 

The American re-entered the room. He bore down on Paik menacingly. "If it turns out that you lied about our man not being here, before I leave I'll come back and cut your throat."

"You will not find him," Paik said as sincerely as he could. "He is gone."

The soldier gestured savagely to the man holding Paik. "Put him down!"

Paik caught a whiff of chloroform before the cloth hit his face. He tried not to fight it. It was only chloroform. He would be all right, provided that the other man kept his word and only killed him if they found Dr. Pierce, which of course they would not do. Paik tried to hang onto that thought as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *

BJ and Margaret had finally settled on BJ's cot and chair, respectively. They'd chatted in a desultory fashion for a while, but at length had fallen silent. Tuck had long since turned his light out, and was apparently sound asleep. About an hour ago Mulcahy had covered his eyes and stretched out on Langley's cot. He lay there now, Bible in one hand, with the pages of his sermon tucked inside it. BJ heard him snoring gently. 

A rap on the door startled him. BJ leaped to his feet, with Margaret beside him. Potter let himself in. BJ needed only one look at his face to know that the mission had not been successful. He only hoped that the news wasn't much worse than a failure to find Hawk. Beside him, Margaret seized his elbow.

"No soap," Potter said quietly, noting their alarm. 

"They couldn't get Hawkeye?" asked BJ.

"We don't know the details yet." Potter seated himself in the chair that Margaret had just vacated. Margaret and BJ sat on the edge of BJ's cot, facing him. Potter leaned forward, his voice low. "Apparently Flagg got out of Songnim safely. He sent a message ahead to the ship, `The hawk has flown.' We won't know more about what they found until they return."

BJ felt the weariness of the long night descend on him like a weight. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. "Do you suppose they moved Hawkeye from the hospital after his recovery?"

"We're fairly positive they did," Potter said.

BJ glanced at him curiously. "Why `positive?'"

"Because General Embry gave me another piece of news tonight, when he called to brief me on the outcome of the mission."

BJ got a queasy feeling, thinking he wasn't going to like this. "What news?"

"It took a little while to work its way through channels," said Potter. "If we had known about it even six hours earlier, Embry never would have authorized this mission."

Now BJ was sure he was going to hate it. "What happened, Colonel?"

"It seems that the North Koreans have finally decided to accept our offer to trade supplies for Pierce. They want to meet us tomorrow at a little village outside of Kaesong, where the exchange is to take place."

"Tomorrow?" BJ's heart raced. "That means --"

"Yes. If the North Koreans are dealing in good faith, which Embry believes they are, then Pierce must have been well on his way to the meeting place by the time we received their message. He probably left Songnim yesterday, or even the day before."

A feeling of dread crept over BJ. "What are the chances that they'll find out about our raid before the exchange takes place?"

"Unless the rescue team completely evaded everyone in town and at the hospital," said Potter, "I'm guessing that the North Koreans will know about it by morning. And it's possible that they will cancel or postpone the meeting as a result. It's also possible that they might take reprisals against Pierce, especially if anyone was hurt."

Margaret put a hand to her mouth. BJ felt as if he was slipping into a maelstrom.

"I'm sorry, son." Potter's voice was near to breaking. "I'm afraid that, in our eagerness to help Hawkeye, we may have inadvertently made things for him even tougher."

* * *

Thursday, April 23, night

Dear Peg,

Darling, you can't believe how much I miss you. The news keeps getting worse. I wish you were here so I could hold you, and not feel as miserable as I do right now.

I wrote you earlier today about the botched rescue mission. I can't blame the rescue team. The pilot was brave and selfless to try. Even Flagg acquitted himself well. The planning and execution of the mission went off without a hitch. They might even reinstate him as a full colonel after this, which I suppose was his motive in volunteering in the first place. And there was no way any of us could have known that Hawkeye was no longer at the hospital. Afterwards, when we learned about the exchange offer, we could only hope that communications between Songnim and Kaesong were sufficiently snarled that the people holding Hawkeye wouldn't find out about the raid until after they released him to us. It seems that hope was false. Our people waited all day at the rendezvous point, but the North Koreans never showed.

I feel like this whole snafu is my fault. I know, Hawkeye let me off the hook about going to the front for me. I'm still not sure if I buy his reasoning on that. But this raid thing is certainly my fault. If I hadn't pushed so hard for a rescue mission, Potter wouldn't have lit a fire under General Embry. If I'd have held off for just one more day, Hawkeye could be in camp right now. Damn it, it's enough to drive a person crazy!

Potter says there's no way of knowing how long it will be before the North Koreans approach us again. So far there hasn't been a peep from the people who set this up, not even to blast us for that abortive rescue attempt. The only good news is that we learned from Flagg that no one in Songnim was hurt. Apparently our people got in and out without alerting the local soldiery, although they knocked out some of the hospital staff with chloroform. That means that the reprisals against Hawkeye, if any, are bound to be less severe. God, I hate myself. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to cause him any more pain. Now he might have to endure extra weeks of it, all because of me. 

I feel like my involvement in this affair has been a disaster from beginning to end. I can't help Hawkeye, and every time I try I seem to end up hurting him more. I feel so guilty, I can hardly stand myself. Every time I see a nickel I think, if it weren't for me, Hawkeye would be back now. It's like everything in the camp is condemning me. I can't live full of self-loathing like this, and I'll be no good to anyone if I try.

I have therefore decided to accept Colonel Potter's transfer offer. I couldn't go to Tokyo General. That would be too much of a slam against Charles, if nothing else, and Potter needs him to stay. He'll be the new chief surgeon here. Let's hope that his elevated position compensates him somewhat for remaining behind. But Potter says he can't release all of his trained surgeons at once. Charles has less seniority than I do, so Charles is the one to stay.

The upshot is that I've decided to go to the 121st Evac. I'll be in different surroundings there, and might even ease up on myself when everything around me doesn't remind me of how badly I screwed up here. Also, at the 121st I'll have the chance to get back to the 4077th relatively quickly in case they need me for any reason. I hope that, by not being on hand to pester Potter about Hawkeye daily, it will lead to fewer mistakes in getting him back. 

Maybe I'm taking too much on myself, but when I think of Hawkeye slowly starving to death, then I think that all of my emotional misery can't come close to what he's going through. I need to get out of this place. I want to come home. I want to run away from here so bad sometimes it's all I can do not to run screaming down the street. I haven't felt this bad since the first night that Hawkeye went missing, and I knew it was all my fault. Well, he's missing again tonight, and this time it really is my fault. And nothing that I can do will ever make up for that.

I'm tired, Peg, and sick at heart. Please forgive the tone of this letter. It's been a long day of disappointment. If I could get back to you tonight, I'd hold you and never let go. Keep me sane, Peg. Be my anchor for me. If you can do that, maybe Hawkeye will get the anchor benefit once removed, since I let him down so terribly. 

I have to stop, Peg. I'm writing nonsense. They say that things always look better in the morning. I can't imagine how this nightmare will improve with daylight, but I have to give it a try. 

I love you, my darling. I love and miss you so much it hurts. Imagine that I'm holding you now so tightly that you can hardly breathe. Don't let me go, Peg. I need you right now.

With more love than you can possibly imagine,

BJ

* * *

Hawkeye whacked his hip against the metal side of the closed truck as a particularly vicious bounce tossed him into the air. He came down hard on the bench, doing his best to balance there between bumps. Surely Korea had the worst roads on Earth. It didn't make things any easier for him by being shackled, manacled, and blindfolded as well. They'd been traveling for the better part of two nights now, and his poor body must be battered into one enormous bruise. 

At least they didn't mean to hurt him this time. Hawkeye was fairly sure that the arduous journey was incidental to their purpose, whatever that might be. For one thing, they fed him regularly. Three meals a day, right along with the troops. He was getting to know his guards a little, albeit by senses other than sight. Stinky was the main one, named for obvious reasons. Then there was Blowhard, and Obsequious Al, his personal favorite. The boss was Grunty, and the driver he'd christened Squeaky because of his shoes. He was relieved to find that he wasn't terribly disoriented by the blindfold. His bout with blindness was starting to pay dividends. It can be truly amazing, the things you end up being thankful for.

Of course, he'd gone through that initial period of terror at the hospital, when the moving crew first barged into his comfy little post-jail cell quarters and trussed him up complete with blindfold. Paik was practically beside himself. A lot of very loud words were exchanged, but as they were all in Korean Hawkeye had no idea what was going on. His best guess was that they were taking him outside to be shot. Thank God Paik had called out, when they'd seized his arms to march him away, "Safe journey, Doctor!" so he knew he wasn't about to face a firing squad, even though he wouldn't be able to see them. 

The journey had proceeded tediously, although Hawkeye reflected that it wouldn't have been much more interesting had he not been blindfolded. They spent hour after hour inside the closed truck, traveling primarily at night to avoid allied planes. He wondered if he was heading back to the front. Maybe they were taking him to a prison camp. If so, perhaps he'd see MaGarry and Deesland and the others again, Wally and Don and Ventris and his men, and Ugo and Herb and Johan. That would be nice. At any rate, it was bound to be better than being chained to a stake on the bare ground again, which was his usual sleeping arrangement at the front. Hawkeye tried to steel himself against that likely possibility.

The truck lurched to one side, then corrected itself in a move that flung Hawkeye to the floor. He was able to break his fall partly with his hands, and partly by planting his face on the boots of the guard sitting across from him. The guard -- Obsequious Al that shift -- started to help him up. The next moment the body of the truck was peppered with bullets.

The driver screeched to a halt. The two guards nearest the front of the truck, Stinky and Blowhard, clambered over him and burst out the back door. Hawkeye heard the chatter of their machine guns as they returned fire. Obsequious Al let go his grip of Hawkeye's arm. Silently he slid to the floor, draping himself over Hawkeye's head and shoulders as he fell. There was no movement at all after that, although Hawkeye could hear the tap, tap, tap of liquid pattering to the truck's metal floor. With a start of horror, Hawkeye realized that Obsequious Al was dead.

A cry from the rear of the truck told him that one of Al's companions had likely met the same fate. Another spray of bullets swept the truck. Hawkeye curled into a ball, keeping his head and shoulders tucked under the dead man. He cried out as a bullet seared the outer side of his left arm, which happened to be facing up. He hunched his body tighter. Only one gun was still firing near the truck's cab. That would be Grunty, the officer. He'd be the one with the pistol. A third blast of machine gun fire rattled the truck. Hawkeye jerked mightily as a bullet tore across his thigh. The metal body of the truck seemed to thrum from the impact of the bullets -- or maybe that was his ears ringing. Hawkeye held still. The shooting had stopped. A foreboding silence ensued.

Hawkeye eased himself a little farther from Al, tilting his head to listen. There, he heard them now -- approaching footsteps. He held absolutely still. Maybe they were black marketeers, and they'd move on when they saw that there was nothing beyond the weapons to steal. It was possible that they were South Koreans, but Hawkeye couldn't count on that. It didn't seem likely that Grunty would take him through unsecured territory. The attackers could be rebels, renegades, outlaws, or just plain folks who hated North Korean soldiers. With practically anybody responsible, his chances for survival were pretty much up in the air.

Blood trickled down his arm and thigh where he'd been hit. Maybe they'd think he was dead and leave him alone. Although what he was supposed to do then, shackled and adrift in a foreign land where he hadn't the faintest idea of his location, would pose a pretty problem.

Several voices closed in on the truck. They halted, hovering near the back gate. Hawkeye heard the brush of clothing and the click of weapons being secured. Looters, probably, taking what they could use from the dead men. One of them jumped into the truck, the soles of his canvas shoes squeaking on the metal bed. Hawkeye's heart pounded. He hoped the movement wouldn't be noticeable. The man took another step forward, then held still. He called. The other voices stopped. Hawkeye lay there trying not to breathe. The man called again. 

A second set of footsteps climbed into the truck. The two voices held a brief conference. Then, in silence, they approached.

Hawkeye felt their hands on him. He willed himself not to move. They propped him up between them. Hawkeye let his head loll, but one of them grabbed it and gave him what sounded like a command, holding it upright. Okay, they knew he wasn't dead. Hawkeye sat up as directed. Might as well take a bullet while sitting tall as lying down, as if anyone outside of the Heroes Almanac would really care about that. He started as the man touched his head. Hawkeye felt him working the knot, then he removed the blindfold.

Hawkeye blinked at the influx of light. They must have traveled through the night; it was about an hour past dawn. He focused on the silhouette in front of him, then stared. Surely that had to be the tiniest human being he'd ever seen. The man was like a toy, with deeply tanned, leathery skin, weathered almost to parchment over the years. The bones in his face were obviously in fierce competition with each other to stick out as far as possible. You could probably balance a cup on either cheekbone. The man's face was so arresting that Hawkeye forgot to be frightened.

The man gabbled at him in Korean. Right, they speak that here. Hawkeye felt like a dunce. He attempted a Korean greeting. "Yovo sayo," he said, hoping he was getting the pronunciation somewhat close. The man started, and exchanged a look with the other man, but did not reply.

Hawkeye then tried the only Korean word he knew that might mean something. "Ouijongbu?"

The man took this in, then replied with a rapid-fire response. Hawkeye listened intently, but he sure couldn't hear anything that sounded like "Ouijongbu" mixed in there. At least they were talking to him instead of shooting him. The other man in the truck sat on his heels. He was much younger than the speaker, and watched his elder respectfully. Their clothes were a mixture of uniforms and rags. Hawkeye couldn't tell if they were soldiers or not.

At the first silence, Hawkeye tried again. "Ouijongbu. MASH 4077. GI Joe."

The little man jerked his hand toward the horizon. "Ouijongbu," followed by more Korean. Hawkeye felt a twinge of relief. A breakthrough.

The little man finished his speech, then popped up neat as a cat and headed for the tailgate. The younger man grabbed Hawkeye under the arms to help him up.

That was a mistake. As soon as he started to rise, Hawkeye felt his head spin. He glanced down. His left arm and thigh throbbed, but little blood had seeped through the quilted Chinese fabric. No wonder they hadn't bought his possum act; he hardly even looked wounded. He felt it, though. The combined weight of the manacles, shackles, and their attendant chains was almost more than he could bear. His knees started to tremble.

Another man jumped into the truck to help the first assist him to the door. Hawkeye took one step that he remembered. The next step was a long drop down into darkness.

* * *

Margaret approached Colonel Potter's office almost in a dream. That's what it had felt like for the last two days, after that long night's session waiting for the results of that horrendously timed rescue mission, and the long next day hoping that the exchange would take place anyway in spite of that mission, even when everyone knew that it wouldn't. Today Margaret was worn out. Her emotional roller coaster was stalled at the bottom of the hill, too exhausted to budge.

Klinger was filing forms. She walked past him, pushed one side of the colonel's split office doors open, knocked on it, and leaned in. "You wanted to see me, Colonel?"

Colonel Potter looked five years older, not surprising considering the events of the last five weeks. Margaret sluggishly recalculated. Six weeks. Six weeks and a couple of days. She'd figure it out later. Right now Colonel Potter was addressing her.

"Come in, Major. Have a seat."

Margaret sat in the first chair she came to, plopping down rather heavily. She'd really have to get some sleep one of these nights.

"Major," said the colonel, "you look beat right down to your socks."

"And those socks are beaten to lint." Margaret sat taller. "I can handle myself, Colonel. What did you want to see me about?"

"Just a head's up." Colonel Potter folded his hands on his desk. "Hunnicutt is leaving us."

Margaret nodded. Status of emotional roller coaster: unchanged. 

"I Corps approved his transfer," the colonel continued. "He'll ship out to the 121st Evac on Monday -- three days from now. I think he could use the break."

Margaret nodded again.

Potter narrowed his eyes. "Could _you use a break, Major?"_

Margaret jumped a little. "Me, Colonel? What makes you say so?"

"For one thing, it looks like you're trying to ride that chair side-saddle."

Margaret straightened up. "It's just fatigue, Colonel. I'll be fine with a good night's rest."

The colonel laced his fingers. "Lord knows you're entitled to a little extra consideration --"

The last thing Margaret wanted was a useless exhibition of sympathy. She said tartly, "With respect, sir, my personal concerns are my own. They have no bearing on my professional conduct or the way in which I manage my staff." 

Colonel Potter watched her with sad eyes. "I see."

Margaret held her chin high. "Do I have your permission to share this announcement with my nurses, Colonel?" 

Potter sat back with a sigh. "Yes, Major, you do."

"Fine. I'll prepare them for the change." Margaret stood. "Are we expecting any replacement surgeons?"

"Not at this time, Major," Potter responded wearily.

"Then with your permission, sir, I'll get started."

As she headed for the door, she heard Potter say gently behind her, "Good luck, Major."

Margaret spun smartly to face him. "Thank you, sir." She about-faced and exited with the same verve. One step through the door, and she was face-to-face with Klinger. His dark, moist eyes met hers. Why was everyone so sad around her today? What was wrong with everybody?

She pushed past him. "Excuse me, Corporal. I have work to do."

Klinger said to her back, "Anything I can help with, Major?"

Margaret continued toward post-op without stopping. "If there is, I'll let you know."

She escaped through the double doors, releasing them gently so the noise wouldn't disturb the patients. Lieutenant Baker was shift leader today. She was sitting at the duty nurse's station, filling out paperwork. Always paperwork. Margaret leaned close to address her quietly. "Staff meeting at the end of the shift, Lieutenant."

Baker was used to the frequent meetings. She didn't even look up. "Yes, m'am."

"Where's Lieutenant Kellye?"

Baker did look up then. "I'm not sure, Major. She's off duty until fifteen-thirty."

"Never mind, I'll find her." Margaret gestured at the desk. "Carry on."

"Yes, m'am."

Margaret exited the outer door to post-op. She scanned the compound for her second shift leader. She'd inform Kellye's group at fifteen-thirty, and bring the rest of the staff up to speed at sixteen hundred when they came off shift. They could handle it. This unit had gotten by with only four surgeons before. Her nurses would all need refresher courses in triage, and someone would have to run the pre-op ward while the doctors were in surgery, but they could do it. Margaret had complete confidence. Her staff could handle anything.

Margaret's footsteps slowed. From out of nowhere a pang assaulted her. She blinked as her breath caught. Damn it, not here. Not in the middle of the compound. 

Margaret lifted her head and marched determinedly toward her tent. With every step she chanted a silent litany: no one stop me, no one stop me. 

No one stopped her. She flung open the door to her tent and hurried into the sanctuary of the relative darkness inside. The wooden door banged shut behind her. Margaret stood a moment with head lowered, breathing deeply, fighting back the emotion. No, it would be all right. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't --

The spasm of sadness that rocked her made her legs buckle. Margaret collapsed onto her cot, covering her eyes. Why was everything so hard? This wasn't a crisis. BJ should go. Margaret was happy for him, in a way. He wasn't well. He picked at his food instead of eating it. If he'd said ten words yesterday, it would surprise Margaret. No, he would be better off at the 121st. He might even begin to recover in a place where everything didn't remind him of Hawkeye.

There, that was it. That was the pain, the fountainhead of all the wrongness. Hawkeye was gone. The unit just wasn't the same without him. BJ wasn't the same, and Potter wasn't, or Klinger ...

Margaret hunched over miserably. And she wasn't the same. Why was that so hard to admit? Everything felt so wrong and empty. Where was his raucous laugh that used to slice through the buzz of the mess tent? Where were the little tunes in OR, and the stupid jokes that used to alternately infuriate her and make her chuckle in spite of herself? Where was his level-headedness in a crisis, his two skillful hands, the way he would never let her off the hook when she was trying to hide out from herself, the way she was right now? All that was left were nickels, nickels, nickels. Well, you couldn't get much comfort from a nickel.

"I miss him," she said aloud, talking between the hands that still covered her face. The tumult inside was a little quieter. She said again, louder, "I miss him."

There, that felt better. Maybe that's all that she needed. Just to admit that she missed a friend and let the chips fall where they would. She could do that.

Margaret rubbed the tears away. All right, just another minute or two. She'd compose herself for two more minutes, then find Kellye. A tear leaked down her cheek, and she brushed it away. She didn't have time for this. After all, she had work to do. 

* * *

Hawkeye faded back to consciousness. He was lying in winter-brown scrub under some gnarled trees. New leaves were unspiraling from the knobby ends of the branches. Groggily he raised a hand to his head, then came awake with a start. His manacles were gone. He looked himself over; no chains, no shackles, no handcuffs. He sagged with relief. After a breath, he lifted his head to take a personal inventory. There was a bloody bandage on his left thigh, and his left bicep was bound as well. His clothes had managed to become filthy in the two days since he'd left the hospital -- probably all that dust from the road.

He raised his right wrist and studied it. He could see the old scars from where he had damaged his wrists before, and new red welts where the recent chains had scraped the skin raw. Nothing too deep or urgent there. He checked his left arm. The wrist was in the same shape as the right one. The place where the bullet had struck was bound with a dirty white cloth. It would be awkward to try to rebandage it. Hawkeye tried not to think about all the microscopic creatures that might be living in that cloth, preparing to move into new quarters in his skin.

At his feet rose a thick screen of bushes. Beyond that, he could just make out the gray back and side of a military truck, pockmarked with bullet holes. He didn't see any bodies, but the bushes partly obscured his view. To his right squatted the little band of guerillas. There were six of them, counting the toy man. Hawkeye could see right away that two of them were wounded. One had a bandage around his shin. Another had a shoulder wound. They crouched in a circle, dividing up the plunder from the captured truck  -- ammunition, food, guns, money, papers. And a medical bag. At least, it looked like the bags that he and his orderly had used at the front. 

It was worth a try. Hawkeye pushed himself up onto his right elbow. His head swam, but he didn't pass out. The movement drew the attention of the group. They stopped talking abruptly and stared. The little toy man hopped up and came forward, chattering, motioning him down. Hawkeye imagined him to be saying, "Rest, rest!" Hawkeye shook his head and pointed to the medical bag, then at himself. "Doctor," he said.

The little man studied him. Hawkeye gestured again at the bag. He tried a third time. The guy with the leg wound finally understood and pitched it over. Hawkeye struggled into a sitting position, then pawed around in the bag. There wasn't much in the way of supplies. Some alcohol, scissors but no bandages, a suture setup and tape, a syringe with a large-bore needle, but no drugs. Oh, well, he could use some of it.

The cloth around his thigh was soaked. He untied the crude bandage and set it aside. Using the scissors, he cut away enough of the fabric to expose the wound. It was a bad laceration, but the bullet had hit nothing vital. Hawkeye gritted his teeth and poured alcohol over the wound.

That almost did make him black out. Jesus, that hurt. He clenched his teeth until the searing wave of pain had passed. Breathing deeply to clear his head, he steadied his hands and reached for the suture setup. He sterilized the needle and suture, then went to work stitching his thigh. The needle wasn't particularly sharp. It was a grand exercise in pain, and one he wouldn't want to repeat. He was aware that the men were watching him curiously, but concentrated on his task. His hands were shaking, from pain or fatigue he couldn't tell. It made it damn hard to close the wound, but he finally succeeded, close enough for jazz, anyway. When finished, he crisscrossed tape over the area to keep the stitches from pulling out. He wanted to avoid reapplying that filthy bandage if he could help it.

His rescuers seemed impressed. The man with the hurt shoulder pointed at it. Hawkeye waved him over. His bullet wound was a simple through-and-through that had penetrated the tissue of the supraspinatous without hitting any of the major vessels. Hawkeye splashed a little alcohol over it -- his days working at the front had taught him to be frugal -- and went to work closing the holes. When that was done, he looked over the other man's leg wound. It turned out to be a gash, probably from a stone. He cleaned it and rebound it with the original cloth, hoping to save his meager supplies for more serious injuries.

His little foray into generating good will appeared to be successful. While he was finishing with the second guy, the others had divided their booty among them. Two of them now approached Hawkeye. Carefully they helped him to stand. The toy man gave the order to move out. The group set out, taking Hawkeye with them.

They followed a twisting course among irrigation ditches and thickets of brush. Their pace was quick. Hawkeye gritted his teeth and did his best to keep up. Considering that they had just knocked over a military truck, he could see the advantages of clearing out of the area. Besides, Hawkeye had two helpers, while the other two wounded men walked unassisted. Even the guy with the bad shin limped along at a good pace. If he can do it, Hawkeye thought, so can I.

The bad news is that they were headed north, toward the foothills. It was pretty easy to tell their direction, with the sun so low in the sky. The next time the toy man came close, Hawkeye caught his attention and pointed south. "Ouijongbu," he said. "MASH four-oh-seven-seven."

The man waved dismissively, jabbering an explanation, and kept walking.

Okay, Hawkeye thought. He knows about Ouijongbu. He just doesn't care that we're walking in the opposite direction from it.

It was difficult to maintain the pace. Despite his improved rations the last two weeks, he had still been eating far fewer calories than his body felt it needed. No doubt his recent bloodletting hadn't helped matters. Soon Hawkeye couldn't think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. His ribs began to ache from the strain, and he fought like mad not pass out. He didn't want to be abandoned by the side of the trail, so he was determined to get wherever they were going -- even though he had no idea where that might be.


	6. Cargo

**6. Cargo**

Dear Colonel Potter,

Gee whillickers! You sure don't tell a feller much. I only just now found out through a friend of a friend from some guy that came home that Capt. Pierce has been missing since early March and now its almost May already! I'm sorry sir, I don't mean to yell but Holy Smokes! Can you tell me any details about how it happened because I'm real worried and so is my mom and Park Sung. Me and Ma have asked the reverand to do a special prayer on Sunday asking his safe return. I haven't told many stories about Korea I don't know why, it just didn't seem to make sense out here but lots of people know about the work I did helping with the wounded and doctors and all and of course Park Sung knows Hawkeye, too. 

Please Colonel if you have time maybe you could fill me in or ask Capt. Hunnicutt if he wouldn't mind doing it. I'm awful worried but my wish is that by the time you get this it will all be mute because Capt. Pierce will be back. I heard on the news that they are doing a sick and wounded prisoner exchange. Could Hawkeye be part of that? Not that I want him to be hurt but I hope that if he is they let him go. Even if they don't I hope the switch is a sign that the war may be over soon but I don't think so. You know how those negotiaters are. 

I hope everyone else is doing okay. I can't picture the MASH without Hawkeye in it. It seems like he was there forever just like I used to be. I hope he gets to go home like I did. It's too bad something bad has to happen for people to go home, only sometimes it doesn't so I guess its okay. I hope the next time you write to me you will be home too. Only dont wait that long because I want to hear about Capt. Pierce even if you don't know anything.

Ma sends her love and all of Ottumwa does too. We're keeping our fingers crossed for all of you but especially Hawkeye. Please Colonel if you hear anything drop me a line.

Your civilian friend,

Walter O'Reilly (formerly Radar)

* * *

Hawkeye leaned heavily on his supporters. Much as he tried to keep pace, he simply didn't have the strength. They'd been climbing steadily for the last two hours, following a network of gullies into the foothills. His mind was willing, but his current injuries and the weeks of privation gave his body a different outlook on the matter. He regularly stumbled on the narrow, rocky track and would have pitched forward if one or another of his companions didn't grab him. Also, the climb made him breathe harder, aggravating the rib injuries that had finally begun to heal. Sometimes he literally saw stars as a shot of pain brought him close to blacking out. He didn't even think about it anymore. He had to keep moving.

He smelled the village before he saw it. A smoky forerunner wafted its way down the path, carrying a peculiar mixture of scents out of which Hawkeye could identify vegetables and manure. At length they rounded a corner, and a squalid collection of dilapidated huts came into view. The village was crowded against the base of a mountain. The only approach seemed to be up the narrow gulley that Hawkeye and his current benefactors had just climbed. Hawkeye noted the presence of women and children -- wary faces peering from dark, small-cut doors rimmed with ragged thatch -- before the raiding party stopped. Hawkeye went to earth where he stood. He was aware of voices around him, but the need to rest was overpowering. It felt like the world was spinning slowly. He was on a platter, like a slow-motion record player, revolving higher and higher into an empty sky of cool, sweet darkness.

Hands brought him back to his current situation. He opened his eyes, startled to take in the dusty, sunlit village. Two men, older than those who'd formed the raiding party (except for the toy man) were urging him to rise. With their aid, Hawkeye got clumsily to his feet. His left leg was trembling; no doubt he'd overworked it. He hoped the stitches had held. His left arm was burning but he couldn't worry about that now. He hobbled along with either arm draped across the shoulders of his escorts. They were bringing him to one of the huts. Hawkeye ducked, but still scraped his head against the upper sill of the door. It was dark inside, the temperature right on the border of being neither warm nor cool. There was a straw mat next to the wall, and they put him on that. It was so thin he could feel every pebble on the ground, but he was so tired he didn't care. It was such a relief to be lying down.

He startled awake -- he didn't even know he'd been sleeping. Someone was offering him water. Small hands. A woman, perhaps? Or maybe the little toy man. 

Hawkeye recalled how he had once scorned water that a young mother had offered him after a jeep accident. Today he reached for the cup gratefully. He polished it off in several appreciative swallows. He lay back with a sigh, and let himself become oblivious.

* * *

Colonel Potter pushed the final paper across his desk and spun it around so it was upright to BJ. He pointed to the signature line. "And once more, right there."

BJ signed. Colonel Potter took back the form, squared it with the rest of the stack, and passed the pile back to BJ. "That's it. Take these with you to the 121st. The clerk there will hook you up with Major Sweeney." BJ took the forms with a hollow feeling. 

"Sweeney's a good man," Potter continued. "He handles much of their restorative work. You'll finally get the chance to perform some of those follow-on procedures that we just don't have the time or facilities for here."

"I know." 

Potter folded his hands on his desk. BJ suspected that another father-son talk was in the offing.

"Son," Colonel Potter began, confirming his prediction, "I know this change is upsetting in some ways. Believe me, I wouldn't be pushing for it if I didn't believe it was in your best interest for me to do so. It certainly isn't in mine, handing over a top-flight surgeon to somebody else. But it's the best I can do under the circumstances."

"I know, Colonel, and I appreciate it. Peg appreciates it, also. It's just ..." He let the sentence hang unfinished.

Colonel Potter fixed his steely gaze on him. "Don't you worry, son. I'll keep on Pierce's track. If I hear anything --"

"I know." BJ waved him off good-humoredly. "I'll be the first to know."

"Well, not much more than thirty or forty down the list."

BJ cocked an eyebrow. "Thirty or forty?"

"I don't think I could dial faster than news spreads through this camp."

BJ smiled. "You're right about that. But I'm not expecting any news -- not unless they happen to bring Hawkeye back to Songnim."

"Let's hope they do," said Potter. "Who knows? In a week or two we might even get another letter courtesy of Syn Paik." 

"I hope so." There was no point in BJ telling the colonel how unlikely he considered that possibility. Instead, he rose. "Colonel, it's been a privilege serving with you."

"Best of luck to you, son." Potter shook his hand warmly. "I mean it."

"To you, too," answered BJ. "I mean that twice as much."

"Klinger's already requisitioned a jeep," said Potter. "You can pull out any time you're ready."

"I said my goodbyes to everyone last night, Colonel."

Potter's eyes started to glisten. "It's a pretty low-key send-off. I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate everything you've done for us --"

"Relax, Colonel. I don't think anyone in the outfit is in the mood for a party, least of all me. But do call if you need me. I'd like to help out if I'm able."

"We'll be fine," said Potter firmly. "I'm counting on you to pick up the baton for some of the cases we'll be sending your way. We're still working together, just a few miles farther apart."

BJ smiled. "Thanks, Colonel."

"Adios. And tell Klinger he'd better not get so involved with his own trading that he forgets to fill my shopping list."

"I'll invent a suitable threat, Colonel."

"Thank you, son. God speed."

BJ found his way outside. Spring had produced a refreshingly crisp morning, with just enough sun to warm things up without being hot. BJ sighed. He believed that this transfer was the best thing, he truly did. So why did it feel so wrong to be leaving?

BJ flexed his feet inside his boots. The leather sides felt rougher today than usual. His argyle socks hadn't been made to take the punishment of Army boots. After ten long days, during which he'd only removed them long enough to wash them, they were definitely wearing thin. Well, he'd be damned if he left the MASH without wearing Hawkeye's favorite socks. Let his new CO tell him they were nonregulation. Unless he was directly ordered otherwise, he intended to keep wearing them until they literally fell apart.

A quick footstep made him turn. Margaret Houlihan approached with her typical decisive gait. BJ was relieved to see that she wasn't quite so exhausted looking as she had been the night before, when the entire gang had feted him at the O Club with farewell drinks and an almost offensive rendition of _Thanks for the Memories_. He hoped her refreshed appearance meant that Margaret had finally gotten some sleep. BJ wondered how she would fare after he left. She really didn't have many friends that she confided in, and she wasn't comfortable about it even when she did.

Margaret drew up next to him. "Is this it?"

BJ hefted the paper stack that Potter had handed him. "I have my traveling papers. As soon as I find my taxi driver, I can go." 

"Well, good luck." To BJ Margaret looked indescribably sad, with her hands stuffed in her pockets and an abandoned look on her face.

On impulse BJ put an arm across her shoulders, guiding her into a slow walk. "Are you going to be okay?" 

"Oh, I don't know." Margaret brushed her cheek, so quickly that BJ couldn't tell if she'd swept away a tear or not. "In the Army you get used to people coming and going. _I was used to coming and going. Then, for a little while, it wasn't like that. I had ... people that I cared about. This latest thing, with you leaving, is just life returning to normal. People come and go. I was a fool to think that would ever change."_

BJ hugged her across the shoulders. "It doesn't have to be that way. You can keep in touch with people, if they really mean something to you."

"That's a nice thought, but sometimes you just can't."

BJ knew she was referring to Hawkeye, and bit back a response. He could hardly refute her when she was so obviously correct.

"I've been thinking," Margaret said.

"About?"

"My future. I don't want to stay in the Army any more."

BJ halted in surprise. "You'd give up being a major?"

Margaret spread her arms. "I'd give up _this -- dismal postings, a life continually on the move so I can never get close to anyone -- the pain." Her eyes were tearing up. "I really have had enough of pain. I've seen enough hate and killing, and more than I can stand of good men getting maimed and hurt. And not even men in some cases -- boys!" She blinked back the tears without letting them fall._

BJ was only slightly less amazed after her explanation. He asked, "What would you do?"

Margaret dabbed her nose. "I want to work in a hospital -- in a nice, clean hospital in the states. I'd still want to stay in surgery, but I'd really like to get away from _this."_

BJ squeezed her shoulders, then pulled her into a hug. Margaret was a great hugger; pity she didn't do it more often. In a moment he felt her begin to chuckle. He pulled back to see her face. "What's up?"

"I'm such a baby. Look at me." 

"Nonsense." BJ patted her back. "Anyone would feel a little low after treating several thousand casualties."

Margaret laughed, blotting the corners of her eyes. "I'm going to miss you, BJ."

"Keep in touch," he said sternly. 

"I'll do my best."

"You'd better."

The sound of an engine drew their attention. Klinger drove a jeep around to the front of the Swamp. Father Mulcahy was sitting in the passenger seat, with a load of boxes taking up half the back seat behind him. Klinger brought the jeep to a halt with a squeal of brakes, then jumped out. Father Mulcahy turned around and began fussing with the stack of boxes, while Klinger came around to assist him.

BJ turned back to Margaret. "It looks like my ride's here."

Margaret embraced him. "Good luck, BJ. We'll let you know if we hear anything."

"I'll do the same."

Then, because it looked like she needed it, BJ stooped and gave her a peck on the lips. Her surprised smile and blush were an ample reward for his forwardness. BJ grinned, then jogged toward the jeep. 

Klinger looked up at the sound of footsteps. "Oh, Captain, there you are. We'd better get going, sir, if we're going to make your report time of eleven-hundred hours."

"Relax, Klinger, I'm all packed. Just let me get my bag."

Father Mulcahy tipped his hat. "Good morning, BJ. I hope you don't mind if I share a ride with you as far as the orphanage. I wanted to bring down a few packages of clothing and some canned goods."

"Father, I'd love your company. Save some room for me in the back seat."

"Need a hand with anything?" asked Klinger.

"Just the stuff from the supply room," BJ said.

Klinger patted a foot locker tucked in next to Father Mulcahy's boxes. "Right here, sir."

"All right. I won't be a minute."

He pushed open the door to the Swamp. Langley was asleep, having come off the night shift a few hours before. Charles was reading at his desk. At BJ's entrance, he set down the book and rose. "Hunnicutt."

"Charles."

Charles followed BJ over to his bunk. "Not to needlessly repeat what I said last night," he said quietly, "but I do wish you the very best of success in your future endeavors."

"Same to you, Charles."

BJ shook his hand. Charles actually looked affected by BJ's departure. Well, he'd unbent a lot during the last couple of months, enough so that BJ thought he might actually miss him a little bit after all. He guessed that sometimes people do change. Charles had been going out of his way to be a responsible chief surgeon, and there had been that amazing conversation with Margaret a moment ago. BJ regretted having to miss any further developments. Yet it was inevitable. He was moving on.

Yesterday BJ had returned the framed picture of Hawkeye's parents to his former bunkie's foot locker, along with his remaining personal effects. BJ had arranged to store it at the 121st, which had a lot more storage space and was far less likely to move than the 4077th. The snapshot of Hawkeye he had placed in his suitcase next to Peg and Erin's. But there was one thing he'd left until the last moment.

BJ faced the cluttered still. All these tributes to Hawkeye, the nickels and mementoes, should remain here. They were expressions from the 4077th to Hawkeye, and BJ didn't feel right in taking them. But one thing he did want. Gently he lifted the dog tags from where they had dangled for more than a month over the fixings bowl. They tinked against the glass, the sound muffled by the packed nickels inside. BJ tucked them into his pocket.

He turned back to find Charles looking at the floor. BJ said, "You're sure you don't mind leaving the still here?"

"Consider it the 4077th's candle burning in the window."

"Thank you, Charles."

"Not at all, Hunnicutt. While Pierce and I were not particularly close, I did admire his professional abilities. I intend to preserve this humble setup as a reminder of his dedication to medicine and his concern for the welfare of his patients."

BJ felt a genuine smile creep onto his face. "Charles, did I hear you right, or did you just commit to being inspired by the still?"

Charles looked startled, then chuckled. "Yes, I suppose I did. Perhaps my Korean experiences have affected me more than I realized."

"If that's true, then perhaps you wouldn't mind hanging onto this." BJ lifted a bottle that had been sitting next to the crate that he'd used as an end table. He handed it across to Charles. "This is the last of the old still vintage. Perhaps you might store it for me. Crack it out in case Hawkeye ever does come back this way."

"Hunnicutt, it will be my pleasure."

BJ raised a brow. "Seriously?"

"Undeniably. If ever a vintage should be stored out of sight and not drunk, this one certainly qualifies."

BJ grinned. "Thank you, Charles."

BJ tucked his traveling papers into his suitcase, then grabbed its handle and the strap of his duffle bag. Charles held the door for him, nodding as BJ passed. 

It felt final then, for the first time, as BJ heard the door to the Swamp rap shut behind him. Klinger grabbed his duffle bag and slung it into the gap behind the passenger seat. BJ wedged himself into the remaining space between Hawkeye's foot locker and the door, placing his suitcase on his lap. He was relieved that Father Mulcahy had chosen to come along. This way he could sit quietly in the back seat, and not feel obligated to make small talk with anyone as they pulled away.

Several of the nurses and Tuck had drifted out of the post-op ward to wave goodbye. BJ waved back, wishing they could just get on with it. He'd already said his parting words the night before; he had run out of words. Finally Klinger started the motor and the jeep pulled away. BJ couldn't help looking back at the Swamp one last time, and at the signpost outside. He noticed Winchester's face peering like a ghost through the mosquito netting behind it.

BJ turned around, and spotted Margaret, standing all alone in the shadow of the building next to the pre-op ward. She lifted a hand in farewell, looking ready to cry. Good, he didn't want to be the only one. BJ returned the gesture, until the curving road hid her from view. Rosie's Bar flashed by on his right. Then it was gone. No more MASH, no more Ouijongbu. 

He turned and faced the back of Klinger's head. Scrubby trees flicked by on either side. The dust from the road drifted over his Class A uniform, penetrating his nasal passages and coating his tongue with the bitter taste of defeat.

* * *

Hawkeye awoke in the early evening. The toy man roused him by shaking his good arm. "Anyanghaseyo," he said, with variations. Hawkeye heard in it an apparently unmangled version of his own attempted greeting.

Groggily Hawkeye sat up. His leg felt better, but his arm was burning. Hawkeye pointed to the bandage on his left bicep, then mimed opening a sack. "Medical bag?" he asked.

The little man nodded, then turned and crept out the low-slung door. Hawkeye heard him calling outside. More awake now, he noticed the aroma of cooking. Maybe they would let him eat something.

The young man who had helped him off the truck appeared, temporarily blocking the door. He knelt beside Hawkeye and presented the bag. 

"Komopsunida," Hawkeye said in his limited Korean vocabulary. The young man bowed.

Hawkeye got out the alcohol, then looked over the bullet wound that had just creased the biceps brachii and brachialis. Not too bad. It would be awkward to try to pour alcohol over it. Hawkeye tried to position himself to not spill any overflow onto the straw mat. 

The young man divined what he was doing, and motioned for the bottle. Hawkeye held out his arm, and the fellow poured. Hawkeye jumped at the shock. Good thing he wasn't holding the bottle, or he might have dropped it. When he could unclench his teeth, he thanked the young man again. His helper nodded, and put the alcohol away.

Hawkeye decided to put a couple of tape strips across the wound, but otherwise leave it open. It had to be better than binding it with that cloth. The young man watched him as he laboriously cut and positioned a strip of tape. Hawkeye said, "You're a doctor in the making, aren't you?"

The young man just eyed him. Hawkeye held out the tape to him. The young man took it, and completed a crisscross pattern under Hawkeye's direction. The entire operation took only about a third of the time that it would have taken Hawkeye to do it by himself. "Komopsunida," Hawkeye repeated sincerely. He wished he could say more. For now, he'd have to get by with smiling a lot -- after he got over wincing from the alcohol.

When the medical supplies were packed away, the young man assisted him outside. The village had turned out for a picnic, gathering around a large pot over a fire in the central clearing. He was a little dubious about the fire, but guessed that the surrounding hills would shield it from any unfriendly eyes. Besides, Hawkeye wasn't about to argue -- he was certain that he smelled meat. Were they having a feast in his honor? 

Apparently so. His helper seated him near the fire. The toy man approached, carrying two steaming bowls. He handed a bowl to Hawkeye, bowing as he presented it. 

"Komopsunida," Hawkeye said again, grateful to Mr. Kwang for teaching him the phrase. 

They were serving millet mush, the same thing that his guards had fed him on their southward journey. Hawkeye suspected that this evening's meal was courtesy of the North Korean military. They had dressed it up with vegetables and some kind of meat that it was better not to wonder about. Dog, perhaps. Well, he could certainly use the protein.

The toy man squatted on his heels next to him. Fearful to violate protocol, Hawkeye waited until the old man began to eat before attacking his own portion. He decimated it in a few seconds. Afterwards he sat back, the feel of warm food in his belly intensely satisfying. He could see more of the stew in the pot, but was afraid to ask for it. Instead, he started to study the villagers.

They were a ragged bunch, probably refugees from some other area. There were about thirty in the band. Hawkeye would have considered them outlaws if it weren't for the women and children. The women were leery and remained on the opposite side of the fire, but the children were curious. Now and again one approached, but whenever Hawkeye reacted to the little scout, he or she scurried away to the safety of his fellows.

The toy man took Hawkeye's bowl and left. Hawkeye beckoned toward the nearest child. The little boy hid his face and dashed off. A little girl, however, came closer. She was so tiny she seemed like a sparrow. In the failing light, Hawkeye could see a couple of dry, scaly spots on her face. Pellagra? He urged the child toward him until she close enough for him to touch. Gently he tilted her face toward the campfire. One of the sores had started to bleed.

The toy man returned with another bowl of food. Hawkeye took it, then pointed at the child's sore. "Pellagra," he told the man. The old man merely watched him. Hawkeye dipped into his bowl and routed out a piece of meat with his chopsticks. He held it up so the man could see it. "Protein," he said. "You give _this to __them," and he pointed again at the little girl's face. He then held out his chopsticks so she could take the meat._

The little girl hesitated, but at encouragement from the old man, she accepted the tidbit. She immediately scampered away, then looked back at Hawkeye, chewing and giggling. Hawkeye nodded and smiled. 

The toy man gestured across the circle, beckoning to the others. A couple of children shyly approached; others were pushed forward by their mothers. Before long the whole group had descended on him. Hawkeye tried to do a visual check of each child, looking for signs of avitaminosis. About half the children appeared to have deficiencies of some kind, with two more kids and one of the mothers showing signs of pellagra or ariboflavinosis. For those children, he made a point of getting the mother's attention, if he could identify her, then showed her a sliver of meat before he fed it to the child. For the rest, he just divided up his dinner among them. 

When everything was gone, and it didn't take long to clear one bowl among ten children, the toy man ordered them away. He produced a pipe and got something disgusting, probably manure, to reek at the end of it. He offered Hawkeye a puff, which he (politely, he hoped) declined. The man then got down to business.

"Ouijongbu," he said, then a bunch of other stuff followed by shaking his head. 

Hawkeye was starting to get the message that Ouijongbu was out. He tried something else. "Seoul?"

The man stared at him. "Kyongsong," he said, or something like it.

Kyongsong -- was that a different town? "Seoul," Hawkeye repeated.

"Kyongsong," said the old man. Well, at least he was consistent. Then he talked some more, and maybe Hawkeye was finally getting the knack of Korean, because he thought he heard a word in there that he recognized.

"Inchon?" Hawkeye ventured.

The old man nodded. "Inchon" (only with a slightly different pronunciation, no doubt the correct one), followed by some other stuff and then "Kyongsong" again. 

"Inchon," Hawkeye said. "Coast. Yellow Sea."

"Inchon," the old man confirmed.

Well, okay, maybe they were near the coast. In that case, it would make more sense to try to reach Ouijongbu via Inchon and Seoul then attempting an overland approach through the front lines. That is, assuming he was still in North Korea, which he must be. UN planes continued to patrol the area. The raiding party had hid every time a plane flew over, but that was only prudence. A pilot could assume that any party on the ground was an enemy on this side of the line. It didn't seem very practical for Hawkeye to try to flag down a jet, certainly not while wearing such a Chinese-looking uniform. He'd be strafed long before they realized he was an American.

"Okay," said Hawkeye. "Tomorrow you take me to Inchon."

"Inchon," the old man said, then offered him another chance at the pipe.

Ah, what the hell. Hawkeye took it, and experimentally drew in a tiny puff. He fought back the impulse to spit, doing his best to expel the smoke gracefully. That stuff tasted just as awful as he'd thought it would. What a rotten thing to do after dinner. 

The next morning Hawkeye woke feeling feverish and weak. He was worried about not being fit enough to make the trip, but it appeared that no one was ready to leave yet. The raiding party seemed content to heal their wounds and feast off their plundered rations. Hawkeye determined to take it easy, fearful of getting a relapse of whatever fever it was that he'd had two weeks ago. Paik had barely pulled him through that, and he'd had the facilities of a hospital at his disposal. These people had the facilities of roughly zilch. However, they shared their morning and evening meals with him, which was generous. No more dog, but they tossed some roots and potatoes that had been saved over the winter into the pot. Hawkeye ate what they gave him, and slept most of the day.

The next day the fever was gone, although he still felt weak. Fortunately he didn't have to go anywhere that day, either. Word must have gotten out in the neighborhood, because another whole village of twenty or so people wandered up the trail, no doubt a partner clan to this one that was hiding out in the same area. They were mostly mothers with children, and a couple of men who had wounds of various kinds. Hawkeye spent the day looking over the parents and children for disease and trying to impart to the mothers the best course of treatment. Unfortunately a sufficient diet was needed to handle most of the problems, something it seemed unlikely that they would be able to manage. He could do nothing for old wounds except verify the extent of the damage and try to indicate reassurance. He longed to reset a badly knitted humerus, but out here it was foolishness to try to break and reset a bone. More recent wounds he cleansed with alcohol, but only one of the men had anything recent enough that he could stitch. 

The third day he actually felt better. His hospital slippers had been shredded from his journey over the rocks, so one of the women adapted a pair of sandals to accommodate his larger-than-Korean-sized feet. His injuries were slow to heal, but they appeared to be holding their own against infection. That day he played with the children and looked over their hurts again. He checked over their food supply, but there was very little dietary advice he could offer via sign language. Their food appeared to be limited to what had been dried and stored over winter, and whatever the various foraging parties could steal. It was too early for their gardens to supply much in the way of vegetables, even assuming that they could cultivate a garden in this rocky soil. Hawkeye could only figure that they were hiding from conscription into the North Korean army. He wished them luck. From what he could tell, this whole area would be part of North Korea for some time to come.

On the fourth day, the toy man must have decided that Hawkeye was well enough to travel. When they sat down to breakfast, Hawkeye noticed that two of the men were carrying a machine gun and a pistol respectively. The latter was the young man who'd shown such an interest in Hawkeye's medicine. They ate their small meal with minimal conversation. At the end of it, the toy man brought Hawkeye a small canvas bag. Hawkeye opened it to find a measure of millet meal. He bowed and thanked his host. Considering their poverty, the gift of food was magnanimous indeed.

After breakfast the toy man drew a map for Hawkeye on the ground. Hawkeye understood from it that he'd have to travel west to a river, then follow the river to the sea. There were some islands near the mouth of the river that they were to go around, making for a city on the mainland coast below. 

"Inchon," the old man said about it, then drew a dot further inland with his stick. "Kyongsong."

"Seoul," said Hawkeye. "I get it. Thank you."

"Kyongsong," the man repeated. 

"Yes, thank you." Hawkeye bowed. "Komopsunida." 

The toy man acknowledged in kind, then rose. Awkwardly Hawkeye got to his feet, favoring his hurts. One final bow, and the farewells were done. Hawkeye waved goodbye to the kids, who had lost their fear of him over the preceding days. The young man with the pistol brought Hawkeye a walking stick. With the man with the machine gun in front, and his young "doctor" friend behind, Hawkeye walked stiffly down the narrow trail, heading for the river and Inchon.

* * *

Monday, April 27, night

Dear Peg,

The move went well, and I'm safely settled in at the 121st Evac Hospital. It about broke my heart to leave the 4077th, but already I feel a bit lighter. I think this will be a good move, although it will take some getting used to.

For one thing, this hospital is huge. They've got five hundred beds filled at any given time, compared to our MASH's daily average of about ten. Of course, we overcrowd our 60-bed capacity during a deluge, but this place can easily hold a few hundred more. It's funny, but this posting almost feels like returning to a hospital in the States. The pace is slower, and everything is _much_ cleaner. The patients have real beds, and the doctors actually follow a schedule. My new boss, Dr. Sweeney, will be having me assist him for a while so I can learn the new procedures. After I get settled in I'll move to the second shift, which is fine by me. I'm actually looking forward to the peacefulness, I even want to say the loneliness, of a night shift.

It's evening now, Peg, and it's so quiet. Even at night in the MASH there was always noise -- conversation from people crossing the compound, the sentries making their rounds, the periodic roar of ambulances or jeeps passing by only a few feet from our heads, with only a thin canvas wall to shield the sound of their motors. Here, I share a room with a guy who supposedly is named Bob, but whom I've yet to see because he's currently on leave. As a result I put away my clothes in complete silence, or the nearest thing to it. The wooden walls block almost all sound from the compound outside. I keep noticing the ceiling, how strange it is to have a solid roof over my head. Occasionally traffic passes by outside, and the lights crawl across the ceiling. As opposed to the MASH, where the lights beam right through the walls into your eyes and wake you up. But there are no battle emergencies here. We know when the wounded are coming, who they are, and what their injuries consist of. Sufficiently equipped teams are ready to greet them when they arrive. It almost feels like cheating.

I think I'll like it here. I haven't met too many people yet, but the ones I have seem friendly and professional. Actually I'm not much in the mood to make new friends. I feel the need for some quiet reflection. Or maybe not even reflection, just a letting go of all the things I've been worrying about for so long. I brought Hawkeye's things with me and put them in storage here. It almost feels as if I'm carrying him a little bit closer to home. In any case, _I_ feel closer to home. Every day, Peg, I'll be sending kids back by ship through Inchon, or putting them on a plane to Japan. I wonder if they'd notice if I jumped aboard with the patients one of these days? In any case, it seems a lot easier to get to you from here. It's so crazy. Just a few hours by air, and I could be in your arms. Yet here I stay. Could you please explain the logic of that to me?

Okay, my eyes are finally closing. Tomorrow I hit the OR, ready to learn something new. I wish I could be learning it in California. Maybe it won't be too long now, darling. I think the negotiators are finally making progress. Give Erin a kiss for me. 

All my love,

BJ

* * *

The trip to the river took three days. It wasn't that their pace was particularly slow. At least, it felt fairly sprightly to Hawkeye, during those periods that they walked. But they hid regularly -- from planes, NK patrols, even common villagers. Rural as much of the land was, there were still enough folks that it seemed they spent two hours hiding for every hour of forward progress. Hawkeye used these rest breaks to marshal his strength and sleep if he could. He still had a peculiar watery feeling in his joints that suggested his fever would happily return if he gave it an opportunity. But he was going home, and he couldn't afford to be sick. Whenever the word came to move out, he dragged his protesting body off the ground and headed down the next section of trail.

It was now deep twilight of the third day. Hawkeye sat on the side of a levee, following the negotiations between the older of his two escorts and the owner of a battered, 20-foot sampan that bobbed forlornly in the irrigation ditch. There was much quiet dickering back and forth. Hawkeye massaged his thigh. Travel had strained it and the stitches were tearing, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it. His arm was faring better, being spared some of the strain. He'd been so long used to the complaints from his ribs that he'd learned to ignore them. However the walk, being mostly downhill toward the sea, wasn't nearly as stressful as their original uphill flight had been. Hawkeye was relieved to see the boat. Maybe now he could rest.

Darkness fell, and still the men talked. It was warm enough for mosquitoes, and Hawkeye spent most of his time swatting them as he waited. He thought about supper, but his gift of millet meal was all but gone. He decided to save the remainder for the boat trip, assuming that he ever got permission to come aboard. 

A fat, lopsided moon, very yellow, lifted itself over the horizon to his left. There was nothing in this river valley but war-ravaged plain. From the toy man's map Hawkeye guessed that they had passed through the region near Kaesong. He'd occasionally glimpsed towns between the irrigation ditches in which they hid. Everything had been bombed flat. Spring was returning to the fields, but the towns were dark, charred, and empty. No building worth the name had been left standing. It was a sobering sight, not made any warmer by the presence of that spectral moon rising over the blasted landscape.

The younger man recalled Hawkeye from his daydreaming by a touch on the shoulder. He nodded toward the boat. Wearily Hawkeye hitched himself up. Leaning heavily on his stick, he struggled up the steep grade toward the boat. 

The captain, if such he could be called, had been joined by a lad of ten or so, probably his son. The boy scampered about the boat, making it ready. The captain jumped onto the deck, then pulled up a board over a bench that had been built against the cabin at one end of the sampan. He beckoned to Hawkeye, inviting him closer. Hawkeye glanced toward it, wondering what might be inside, when he suddenly understood what the captain was saying. 

"You want _me to get in there?"_

The captain kept talking, gesturing. Doubtfully Hawkeye climbed over the gunwale, his young friend steadying him. He hobbled toward the bench and looked into the empty space. It smelled damp, but the moonlight made it impossible to see any details. The captain took Hawkeye's walking stick, then gestured for him to climb in. 

Hawkeye looked at his two escorts. The older one stood impassively, but the young man echoed the captain's gestures for Hawkeye to climb in. Hawkeye guessed that they wanted him to be invisible in case they were stopped by any North Korean patrols, but the idea of crowding into such a small space as that set his teeth on edge. 

Everyone was watching him. Oh well, here goes nothing. Hawkeye sat against the wooden side, braced himself, and lifted his legs over. A host of critters scurried away on the interior side, making his skin crawl. Hawkeye swept a sandaled foot around the floor trying to clear it of unwanted company, for all the good that might do. Which was worse to have crawling on him, bugs or rats? He decided that he was going to find out, because this looked like the only boat to Inchon that would honor his passport. Gingerly he lowered himself in.

He was taller than the bench was long, so he partially curled up on his right side. The wooden deck was damp as he'd suspected, and smelled of mold. Wonderful, let's see if we can add pneumonia to our list of infirmities. When the captain replaced the bench cover, it was all Hawkeye could do to hold himself in place. Darkness enveloped him. At least they didn't nail the bench down. Hawkeye lay there uneasily, feeling the air grow muggy in the confined space. Surely they couldn't keep him in here for very long. He'd suffocate.

The footfalls of his companions on deck were clearly audible through the wood. There was a squeak of wood against wood, then a curious sliding sensation. The captain and his son must be poling the sampan down the ditch. That meant that his two escorts were back on their way home. Hawkeye fretted in his latest prison. He wished that he could trust this boat captain as much as he did the people in the village. He didn't like the thought of placing his life in the hands of someone who had to be argued into taking him, and then only as a sardine in a wooden can. 

Something tickled next to Hawkeye's face, and he smacked it with his fist. He didn't succeed in killing it; whatever it was squirmed away. This was a nightmare. The squeaking of poles and swaying motion went on. Hawkeye tipped up his head, trying to find some better air to breathe.

* * *

Charles stepped out the rear door of post-op for a breath of fresh air. It was mild enough that he didn't need a coat; the night air was actually invigorating after the contrived warmth of post-op. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, appreciating the lofty beauty of a half-lit moon hanging whitely over the eastern ridge.

He turned to reenter the ward when he noticed that he wasn't alone in his appreciation of the heavens. A trim figure with a jacket over her bathrobe stood in the dark outside her tent, looking up. Charles altered his course and made his way to her.

"Margaret," he said quietly. "You're up late."

"Charles. Yes, I know." She rubbed her hands over her arms.

"Chilly?"

"Yes. Well, not really, but I've been out here a while."

"Moon gazing?"

"Just thinking." She smiled, but in the dim light that reached her from the spotlight outside post-op, her expression appeared sad.

Charles positioned himself companionably next to her. "May I inquire as to the nature of your thoughts?"

"Well ..."

Margaret was hardly forthcoming at the best of times, and lately she'd kept more to herself. She rarely ate with the officers anymore, except for Father Mulcahy or Colonel Potter. Charles might have suspected that she was avoiding him, except that Potter had mentioned something about her evasiveness in passing after one of their staff meetings. Pierce or Hunnicutt would never have let the situation continue. Let's see, what could he do, in his own inimitable style?

"Margaret," said Charles, "you're entitled to your privacy of course. However, if you would like to ... unburden yourself of anything, the present time would be commodious."

Margaret's expression warmed. "That's sweet of you. But there really isn't anything on my mind."

Charles cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Really," Margaret insisted.

"Then perhaps you'd care to share with me what _isn't on your mind."_

Margaret laughed. "You're as bad as BJ."

Charles blinked. Apparently his tactic had worked too well. "Thank you."

"Oh, Charles." Margaret jiggled his arm, then stood next to him, returning her gaze to the moon. "I was just thinking about what day it is."

"May 4th?" asked Charles.

"May 3rd," said Margaret.

"Not since midnight."

"I know. It's just that May 3rd was the last day of the prisoner exchange."

The light dawned. "Ah, yes." He looked down at Margaret. "And Pierce wasn't returned."

"I knew he wouldn't be," said Margaret. "But part of me kept hoping that he would." She shrugged. "Just ... hoping."

Charles was moved. "You think about him a lot, don't you?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

Charles's automatic reaction was to deny it, but he thought it through. Every morning he rose to the sight of the nickel-filled still and Pierce's bathrobe. It was as if the man's spirit still lingered about the tent, even though his physical presence had gone. 

Charles said slowly, "Each day, when I assume my duties, it is my intention to fulfill them with something of the dedication and passion that Pierce brought to the same role."

Margaret's pale eyes glimmered up at him. "Really?"

"Really."

Margaret looked thoughtful. "I had no idea."

"Based on that remark, I can only suppose that I've failed."

Margaret clucked her tongue. "Charles, I didn't mean that! You know, you really are doing a very decent job -- much better than I expected."

"Your endorsements this evening are too flattering."

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant -- take for example the way you helped out Langley and Tuck when they arrived. That was really decent of you, not to mention essential. I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

"I only did what had to be done."

"There was a time not too long ago when the only thing you ever did was your regular shift or required OD duty."

Charles felt the truth of her statement too keenly, and shifted away from the uncomfortable ground. "I must have been obeying that old Army maxim, `never volunteer.'"

"Well, I'm glad you volunteered that time."

"Thank you."

They stood for a while in silence, gazing at the moon. Charles stirred. "I suppose I should return to my shift. Any parting thoughts?"

"The moon isn't that small tonight."

"The moon..?"

Margaret smiled. "It's nothing. Something BJ said once." She pulled open the door to her tent. "Good night."

Charles backed away uncertainly. "Good night, Margaret."

* * *

The boat journey was interminable. Thank God he didn't have to stay curled up in the bin the whole way. Apparently the captain only wanted Hawkeye locked out of sight when they passed through a town. He'd stopped the boat not too long after Hawkeye had boarded to take on supplies. About twenty minutes after they were underway again, the plank was removed and Hawkeye allowed to clamber out. The captain wanted him to stay in the cabin or flat on the deck, even though they traveled mostly by night. Whenever they approached a town, Hawkeye was again sealed into the bench seat as a precaution.

Escaping the mouth of the river on day three was the hairiest part. The captain apparently intended to slip out on the morning tide with the fishing fleet. Hawkeye had been locked away for most of the previous night, the riverside traffic having steadily increased as they approached the bay. Dawn was announced by a crack of light along the front edge of the plank, at which point Hawkeye had been hidden for several hours. The boat creaked and felt strangely skittish on the deeper water, guided by a homespun sail that looked like it had never seen a good day in its life. The hours wore on, and Hawkeye wondered if they would let him out soon. Surely they must be out to sea by now.

All at once he heard voices calling. The hails grew gradually louder, as if they were approaching a dock or another ship. Something knocked against the wooden side of the boat. The gunwale scraped loudly. There was a pause, followed by the heavy tramp of booted feet. Hawkeye's heart rate went sky high. For minutes the heavy footfalls on deck had his heart in his throat. Fortunately this turned out to be some sort of cursory inspection, because the boarding party left after only a brief visit. Hawkeye remained in his hiding place all day, for once not minding the claustrophobic quarters or its icky little denizens that made him jump as they tried to conduct their business around or beneath him. The truth was, he was so unnerved by the boarding incident that, when they did pull off the plank shortly after sundown, he was reluctant to climb out. 

The blast of salt air was invigorating, the sky still molten from where the sun had set across the sea. Hawkeye's limbs were so cramped that he could scarcely move them. The captain and his boy hauled him out limp as a dead cat and laid him on the deck. Hawkeye lay on his back drinking in the fresh air, and even more greedily consuming the water they offered him. His food had run out the day before, but the two boatmen had been fishing. Hawkeye thought very few meals tasted as good as his snack of fresh sushi, eaten right off the hook. 

He was left free that night. Mostly he dozed on the deck on a thin straw mat, with a piece of sailcloth over him to ward off the breeze. When dawn approached they gave him some more of their fish, then shooed him into the cabin. They were sailing south in sight of land, but in the predawn light Hawkeye could see the fishing fleet setting forth. All day he kept out of sight in the relative comfort of the cabin, except for those times when another vessel came too near, and he was herded into the hole for another round of waiting and hiding. This was the pattern for the next three days.

He was sleeping in the cabin when the sound of voices jolted him awake. Light was broad in the sky. The voices were close -- seemingly right next to the boat. A heavy boot hit the deck. 

Hawkeye rolled off the bunk to the floor. He crouched there, desperate. Unfortunately, there was no place to hide. Every nook in the tiny cabin was filled with the supplies or tackle needed for the crew. He cowered next to the bunk. They were obviously being boarded again, but by whom? A North Korean patrol? If so, why hadn't the captain warned him?

Footsteps approached the cabin briskly, and the door was flung wide. Hawkeye stared at the opening, mesmerized. A uniformed man looked in.

The man was Korean, but Hawkeye didn't recognize the uniform. It had that clean look that can only be maintained by those who work on the sea, far from the all-pervasive grime that hounds those who labor on land. The man shouted at him and gestured. Hawkeye couldn't tell if he was angry or not. His expression was firm, but he didn't have a weapon drawn.

Slowly Hawkeye pushed himself up. He couldn't stand upright in the cabin, but limped toward the door. The man stood aside to let him pass.

The captain and his son stood near the front of the boat, fidgeting. They kept their gazes focused on the deck. The patched square sail had been furled. Their sampan was moored to a larger vessel, some kind of launch that had come alongside. On the deck of the launch, four more mariners in similar uniforms to the one who had opened the door stared down at him. Two of the men carried rifles; another wore a side arm.

Hawkeye walked stiffly toward the center of the sampan. He always limped until his leg had a chance to loosen up. The first man followed closely behind him. When they reached the middle of the deck, the man called. Hawkeye stopped and faced him. The man pushed back the quilted cloth around Hawkeye's neck, checking around his throat. It occurred to Hawkeye that the man was looking for dog tags. Finding nothing, the man stood back and eyed him.

"GI Joe?" he asked.

Hawkeye glanced at the captain and his son. If he said the wrong thing -- if these were North Korean sailors -- would they harm the others for having carried him this far?

"Oi!" the first man cried, nettled at being ignored. He pointed at Hawkeye's nose. "You ... GI Joe?" 

Hawkeye cast a glance at the others. He had to say something. "I'm Captain Benjamin Pierce. I'm a surgeon -- a doctor."

The man's expression didn't change. 

If these were NKs, they'd never pass him through, regardless of what he said. Hawkeye felt his internal resistance fade. "Yes. Me GI Joe."

The man stabbed his finger at him. "You!" Then he pointed at the launch.

There was nothing for it but to obey. Hawkeye hobbled toward the launch that dominated the creaky sampan. Seagulls coasted through the air, spreading their thin cries on the wind. There was an open gate in the launch's deck rail. A knotted line descended from the railing beside it to the sampan's deck. Hawkeye hoped he wouldn't have to climb up to the gate. With his luck he'd fall between the boats and be squished or drowned.

However, climbing was apparently the plan. As he approached the launch, one of the riflemen slung his weapon to extend a hand, as did the man with the pistol. The other rifleman stood back, his weapon held ready but not in an overtly threatening position. With the first man assisting from behind, and the two others pulling from above, they hauled Hawkeye through the open gate in two big steps. Hawkeye sucked in his breath as the movement caused pain to spear his arm and sides, then it was over.

Up on the taller deck, he could finally see what the launch had previously obscured. The bay was covered with seagulls, hovering in loud hordes over numerous small boats. Beyond them lay an extensive network of docks, including a mammoth platform at which was moored a sizable military ship. Beyond the docks a good-sized town hugged the base of rolling wooded hills that dropped steeply to the water. The sun hadn't risen far above the eastern hills. Hawkeye could see people moving like ants on the streets along the shore.

Hawkeye pointed at the town. "What city is that?"

The rifleman beside him stared. Apparently he knew as much English as Hawkeye knew Korean.

Hawkeye persisted. "City, town, that one. What's its name?"

The man lifted his chin toward land. "Inchon."

"Inchon." Hawkeye let out the name with a breath. Inchon. South Korea. He'd made it. He was free.

Hawkeye began to laugh.

* * *

Sherman was heading across the compound toward his office when he heard the announcement. 

"Paging Colonel Potter," said Klinger's sarcastic voice over the PA. "There's someone on the telephone who can't wait to speak to you."

Sherman picked up his pace, and in a moment pulled open the office door. Klinger saw him and rose, phone in hand.

"Inchon Port Authority calling," he said. 

"Inchon! What do they want?"

"You, oh noble sir. You want to take this in your office?"

Sherman waved him off and took the phone. "This is Colonel Potter. Who's this?"

"I am Chang Kon-sang of the Inchon Port Authority," said the voice on the line. "I wondered if you would help to identify someone for me."

"Identify someone?" Sherman said, to Klinger's interest. "Who?"

"One moment, please."

There was the sound of rustling, then a new voice came on the line. A familiar drawl said, "Hello, Colonel."

For two heartbeats Sherman forgot to breathe. "Pierce?" he said tentatively.

"Well, I wouldn't swear to it in court," Hawkeye responded, "although they just might make _you do that."_

"_Pierce!" Sherman clutched the phone, while beside him Klinger jerked upright with amazement. "Is it really you?"_

"That's what the Port Authority is trying to find out. Apparently they don't let just anyone into this country who arrives via sampan smelling like a sardine."

"Ho, Hawkeye!" Sherman couldn't remember when he had felt so relieved. "It's good to hear your voice, son!"

"Yours, too, Colonel. Believe me," and now Sherman could hear the weariness in his former chief surgeon's words, "it's very good to hear."

"How are you, son? What's your condition?"

"Pretty fair."

"Uh huh." Sherman could well imagine, based on Paik's reports, how "fair" Pierce's condition might be. Sherman would probably have to view the medical records to find out what the story really was. "How did you end up in Inchon?"

"I was rescued by some villagers while I was being moved from one place to another, and they hooked me up with a boat captain who got me across the border."

"So you escaped?"

"More like I bumbled into some people who helped me escape."

Beside him, Klinger had fired up the PA system. He now picked up the mike. "Attention, all personnel. I thought it might interest you to know that Captain _Pierce is on the line. He's calling from Inchon harbor. You may now begin mandatory displays of spontaneous emotion."_

"I'd love to hear more about it, son," Sherman told Hawkeye, "but we're about to become inundated."

"With casualties?" asked Hawkeye, sounding concerned.

"With partying personnel," said Sherman. "Klinger just made this little howdy-do call public. But first, what do you need me to do?"

"Nothing further, Colonel. Mr. Chang here just needed someone to verify my identity before he passed me through. I asked them to take me to the 4077th, but --"

That was as far as Pierce got before the door crashed open. Everyone piled in -- corpsmen, nurses, officers. Within fifteen seconds the place was a madhouse, and Sherman hadn't a prayer of hearing anything on the line.

"_Silencio!" he bellowed. "If you can't hold it down, take it outside!"_

The bedlam decreased marginally. It was Klinger who came to the rescue. "Hey, everybody," he yelled, "I'm switching to speakers." He flipped a switch and called, "Dr. Pierce, are you there?"

Everyone shut up to hear the response. "Hello, Klinger," said Hawkeye.

The place erupted with cheers. Sherman held out the phone so Pierce could get an earful. For himself, he stuck a finger in the ear nearest the door. People in front of him were laughing and crying. Margaret Houlihan had collapsed in tears, and was being held up forcibly by Father Mulcahy.

Sherman picked up the mike. "Did you get that, son?"

Hawkeye's response came over the speakers. "It sounds like you have the whole unit in there."

"Damn near," Sherman confirmed, talking over the renewed cheering. "What's your situation, son?"

"Well, as soon as we get off the phone, Mr. Chang has detailed a couple of guys to drive me over to the 121st. I was going to see if I could hitch a ride from there to the 4077th."

"Ix-nay on the hitch, Pierce," said Sherman, then spoke louder to override the resultant groans. "I think you'll get a fine reception at the 121st. Hunnicutt is there now."

"BJ's at the evac hospital?" Pierce sounded apprehensive. "What happened?"

"He transferred over there just last week. He'll be tickled pink to hear that you're coming."

"Does he have to?"

"What do you mean?" Sherman put it together. "Oh, I see. You want to surprise him."

"Why not?"

Sherman chuckled. "Well, if you insist. But you're responsible for resuscitating him if he collapses from the shock."

"BJ can handle it. Besides, I still owe him for his latest joke."

"Pierce, I know you need to rest up, but I don't think I can let you go without at least a few of the folks here having a word with you. Do you mind?"

"Do I mind?" Pierce's voice was almost drowned in the excited chatter. "I'd have to have a word with you if you said I couldn't have a word with them."

Sherman passed the mike to Bigelow, who was closest. "We all miss you, Hawkeye," she called. "Come back soon!"

"I'll do my best."

The mike passed next to Father Mulcahy. "Hawkeye, hearing from you again is the answer to a lot of prayers. Welcome home."

"Thank you, Father."

Mulcahy handed the microphone to Margaret. Tears were streaming down her face. She seemed to be crying more than she was smiling. She held up the mike and tried to talk into it. Even though her lips moved, no sound came out.

"Hello?" Hawkeye queried.

Margaret opened her mouth, but again nothing came out but a soundless puff of air.

Father Mulcahy leaned close. "Hawkeye, this is Margaret trying to have a word with you."

"I must have been gone a long time. You sound just like Father Mulcahy."

Mulcahy handed back the microphone. "Go ahead, Margaret," he said encouragingly. "Say hello."

Margaret's third attempt was no more successful at producing communicable sound than the first two. Sherman chuckled, along with several others.

Mulcahy reclaimed the microphone. "Hawkeye, Margaret isn't able to speak at the moment. She's crying rather heavily, I'm afraid."

"She's that upset that I'm back, huh?"

Margaret snatched the microphone from Father Mulcahy. She mouthed a vociferous response into the microphone that, unfortunately for her, was little more than a string of sibilants strung together by sound-free breaths.

Charles took the microphone. "In case you couldn't make that out, Pierce, you have just been roundly cursed out by the aforementioned Margaret Houlihan."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"For myself I would like to add that your bathrobe and still are ready to be picked up as soon as you find it convenient to do so."

"Stop it, Charles. I'm getting all choked up."

Sherman took back the mike. "I'm sure we could go on for another hour, Pierce, but you ought to get yourself over to the 121st and let Hunnicutt and the other folks there give you a good look-see."

Sherman was distracted by an urgent tapping on his arm. Margaret was mouthing something, trying to make up for her lack of voice with expressive hand movements.

"Uh, Pierce," Sherman said, "if I understand my sign language correctly, Margaret is asking if you would mind a little welcome-home visit from a few members of your old unit."

"It's up to you, Colonel. If you want to waste a day driving down to see me, I'll happily see you in return."

Sherman wasn't sure how to interpret that response. Most likely Hawkeye was reluctant to have a lot of people swarming over him when he was fresh off the boat. "Pierce," he said, "we'll keep it small, no more than two or three of us. Does that sound acceptable?"

"It's your party, Colonel."

"It will take us a little while to get organized. We'll probably get to Seoul no sooner than, oh --" He checked the clock; it was shortly before ten. "Say half past noon."

Hawkeye's voice cut easily across Margaret's silent protests. "Sounds good, Colonel."

Hah, Sherman was right. Hawkeye would be much happier seeing people after he'd had a chance to clean up a little. Well, if Sherman could keep Margaret on a leash, it shouldn't be too hard to dampen the dust trails that the welcoming committee was so eager to burn behind them.

"And listen, Colonel?" Pierce continued. "Would you mind calling my dad? They don't want me calling the States from here, and I want him to know that I'm okay as soon as possible."

"No problem, son," said Sherman. "In fact, we could even delay our trip by another hour or so, and give you the chance to talk to him. I'm sure they'll let you place that call from the 121st."

"I'd appreciate that, Colonel."

Margaret subsided when Pierce mentioned his father. _Thank you, Pierce,_ Sherman thought.

"And one more thing," Pierce said. "I was wondering if you could arrange some sort of compensation for the boat captain. He ran a lot of risks getting me here."

"Don't worry, Pierce," said Sherman. "We'll work something out."

"It would be nice if whatever you worked out included food and other supplies that he could bring back to the villagers up north. Half of them are starving."

"I'll see what I can do."

Igor leaned forward. "Speaking of starving, Captain, do you want me to fix you a nice lunch? The colonel can bring it with him when he comes."

"No thanks, Igor," responded Pierce. "I ate yesterday."

Many in the group chuckled, but Sherman couldn't. Pierce's response was probably no more than the plain truth.

"All right, Pierce," said Sherman. "We'll see you this afternoon, probably around thirteen-thirty. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I think so. So far it doesn't seem real. I keep expecting them to whisk me off somewhere else."

"Just so long as they don't whisk you farther than the 121st. Welcome home, son."

"Thank you, Colonel. Goodbye, all."

"Goodbye!" chorused the room, and Sherman cut the connection.

"All right," he said, addressing the high-spirited assembly. "We'll pull out in two hours. Now, he's bound to be tired, and we don't want to overwhelm him with visitors. Major Houlihan and Father Mulcahy will accompany me. The rest of you, if you'd like to send along a little welcome-home thought, just give it to one of us."

"Colonel," cried Klinger. "Surely you don't mean to drive all the way to Seoul without an experienced driver at the wheel."

Sherman shot him a look. "No, I don't. Fortunately, I'm _damned experienced."_

Klinger deflated. "Yes, sir."

"Relax, people," said Sherman. "We'll try to arrange for Hawkeye to visit here soon."

The group shuffled out the door, their momentary disappointment at being denied a visit more than compensated for by their relief at knowing that Captain Pierce was free. Sherman mulled the facts. If Pierce was in substandard shape -- and how substandard was anyone's guess at this point -- the last thing Sherman wanted to do was haul him around Korea. He intended for only the quietest and calmest members of his staff to visit Pierce this first time, except for Margaret, whom he doubted he'd be able to stop in any case. If he and Father Mulcahy pulled out alone, she'd be five minutes behind them with Klinger at the wheel.

"Klinger," said Sherman, when the crowd had dispersed, "try to get a call through to the States. I want to tell Dr. Pierce that he can expect a call from his son."

"Yes, sir." Klinger cheerily picked up the phone.

"After that, we'll start spreading the word through I Corps."

"My heart yearns to do thy bidding, Colonel. Only, what do you want me to tell them?"

Sherman sighed. "Tell them Captain Pierce is free. Any details beyond that will have to wait until later this afternoon."


	7. Evac

**7. Evac**

"Dr. Hunnicutt?"

BJ looked up from the procedural write-up he'd been studying. Cassie, one of the nurses on Dr. Sweeney's team, stood in the doorway. "Yes?"

"There's a patient asking for you."

BJ set the folder aside. "A patient asking for _me_?"

"That's what Admitting said, sir."

"But I've only been here a week. No one _knows_ to ask for me. Did they say who it is?"

Cassie shrugged. "Just some guy in ER 3."

"ER 3." BJ headed for the door, trying to puzzle out who might know about his transfer here. He paused in the hall, momentarily at a loss. 

"He's in Admitting ward 1." Cassie pointed down the hall. "Down the stairs, and keep going until you hit the back of the building." 

"Right. If you don't hear from me by noon, release the bloodhounds."

BJ did in fact get turned around on the main floor, but a sympathetic nurse straightened him out. He knew he was in the right place when a clobber of people with charts and patients in wheelchairs made an obstacle course of the hall. He stopped at the main desk.

"ER 3?" he asked the duty nurse, an older woman with her hair in a severe bun.

The woman looked up, her face seemingly set in a perpetual glare. Sternly she pointed with her pencil down the hall.

"Thank you." BJ backed away. He hoped he'd never have to work with her. He'd be living in a permanent state of fear.

The admitting rooms were not clearly labeled, so he popped his head into the first opening he came across. Some bandaged patients waited despondently within, some on chairs and a couple on gurneys, while hospital staff with clipboards circulated among them.

"May I help you?" asked a feminine voice at his elbow.

BJ turned. Another nurse, young and much less fierce looking, stood in the hall. "I'm looking for ER 3."

"Oh, are you Dr. Hunnicutt?"

BJ felt relieved. "Yes."

She smiled, the welcome in her face dispelling the feeling that BJ had begun to develop about being an intruder in his own hospital. "Right this way, Doctor. I've been sent to find you."

"I'm glad. I was afraid they might need to get out the search dogs after all."

"It's a big place, I know." She led him around a corner to a closed door. A small black plate with "ER 3" stenciled in white marked the door, but BJ didn't know how he could have possibly found it on his own. ERs 1 and 2 were nowhere in sight.

His guide knocked on the door and leaned in. "Visitor," she lilted.

"Is it Dr. Hunnicutt?" answered a rough voice he didn't recognize.

"Yes, sir," she answered.

"Send him in."

Thoroughly bewildered, BJ stepped past her through the door. And halted.

Another white-coated staff member with a clipboard was seated on a metal folding chair across the small examining room. BJ registered him only as a blur, because his gaze was locked on the bedraggled figure that had just risen from the chair next to his. BJ took in the grimy, quilted uniform with a ragged blood-stained tear over the left thigh; the bare wrists and ankles showing recent scars protruding from the too-short tailoring; shaggy dark locks flecked with frost above a ratty two-week old beard; deep blue eyes in hollow sockets, the entire face chiseled to the point of emaciation, but softened by a careless grin that was all his own.

"_Hawkeye!" BJ whispered._

"Hello, Beej."

In two steps BJ had closed the distance. It was the only possible antidote to astonishment -- the physical feel of Hawkeye's skinny ribs and shoulders, solid in his arms in defiance of all the arguments that insisted why he couldn't possibly be here.

BJ broke the embrace to hold his friend at arm's length. "Hawk, how did you get here?"

"Long story," said Hawkeye. "What's up with your transfer to the 121st?"

"Long story," said BJ. "But you have to tell me what happened. Did they trade you, or let you go, or --"

"Dr. Hobart here has the full story," said Hawkeye. "The short version is that I was being moved somewhere and guerillas intercepted my truck. They arranged to get me across the border disguised as a mackerel in a sampan."

"I thought I smelled fish, among other things."

"Yeah, that's the current topic of discussion. Dr. Hobart wants to examine me first, and I want to take a shower. I say that there's no point in dressing in anything clean until I'm not quite so disgusting."

"But you've always been disgusting, Hawk." The words slipped out before BJ could stop them -- his old habit of bantering with his friend suddenly awakening from its dormancy to embarrass him.

But Hawkeye only laughed. BJ had thought he'd never hear that familiar cackle again. It was too much. All at once the world went blurry and he had to squeeze shut his eyes.

Hawkeye placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Beej. I'm all right."

BJ nodded, unable to speak. They embraced again, patting each other's shoulders. BJ pulled away, struggling to force down the emotion.

"Look, Beej, you gotta help me."

BJ wiped away brimming tears. "Sure, Hawk. Anything."

"Some folks from the 4077th are coming down in a couple of hours. They didn't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure that Potter and Margaret are coming, and maybe one or two other people."

"You already contacted the 4077th?"

"That's how they let me into the country. Potter fixed it for me. He's the one who told me you were here."

BJ said sagely, "How long did it take for the news to spread all over camp?"

"I don't know. About a minute. Why?"

BJ chuckled. "Potter told me that I'd be the fortieth person to know you were back."

"Oh, we're probably well into the fifties by now," said Hawkeye, "if you count the Port Authority and the evac staff. But I have a problem."

"Which is?"

Hawkeye spread his hands. "Look at me. I look like some sort of refugee."

"You look like you've been through hell," said BJ. 

"Exactly. And I don't ... I don't want to scare them by the way I look. By the time they get here, I want to be as normal looking as possible."

BJ could hardly keep his jaw from dropping. "Hawk, they're going to notice a difference. What are you, forty pounds underweight?"

Hawkeye pretended to act offended. "Come on, Beej. It's not that bad."

Dr. Hobart spoke up for the first time. "He weighs 122," he said in his gravelly voice.

BJ jumped. "Hawk!"

"In light clothing," Dr. Hobart added.

"Thanks a lot," Hawkeye fired back at him. He turned back to BJ desperately. "Look, I only said as normal _as possible. What do you say? Shower, haircut, shave --"_

"_Lunch," said BJ significantly._

"The Port Authority fed me," Hawkeye said. "Kimchi and roast pork. Do you know how long it's been since I've had meat? Trust me, I'm full."

Dr. Hobart said, "I'll need some photographs of your original condition."

"Fine, photograph me!" said Hawkeye. "Just get me into a shower as quickly as possible and you'll have a friend for life. Once I'm clean, you can examine me inside and out to your heart's content. Only squeeze some time in there somewhere for me to call my dad."

"I'll see that that all happens," said BJ, catching Dr. Hobart's eye. The other physician nodded.

"Then let's get started," said Hawkeye. "We're on the clock."

* * *

It was nearly fourteen-hundred hours when Sherman pulled the jeep up to the side entrance of the 121st, the one commonly used by staff and not patients. A group of about a dozen staff members in fatigues and white coats were scattered just outside the door, gossiping and smoking in the afternoon sun.

Sherman, Margaret, and Mulcahy climbed down from the jeep, as a corpsman rushed to greet them. "Take your jeep, sir?" 

"Thank you, Private." 

As Mulcahy and Margaret collected their various bags, Sherman overheard some of the conversation on the steps.

"He was a POW for two months, and he lost over fifty pounds," said one of the corpsmen.

The word _POW caught Sherman's attention, and he listened more carefully._

"I believe it," another one answered. "Who's the one who's seen him? A walking skeleton, she said."

"That's what Nurse Wilson told me," said a pretty young lieutenant. "She said they got the smallest pajamas they could find for somebody his height, and they hung on him like a tent."

Mulcahy brushed close to Sherman. "Colonel, do you suppose they're talking about Hawkeye?"

Sherman frowned. "If they are, Padre, I suspect that they're exaggerating a might."

"That don't surprise me," said the first man, responding to the nurse. "You know how they got him across the border? Nailed him into the hold of a sampan. He was sealed up between the decks for six days and nights with no food or water. He's lucky he got out alive."

The second corpsman said, "I heard they lowered fish down to him."

The first corpsman said, "Well, maybe that's true. But I heard the NKs made it tough for him, on account of all the gooks he killed."

"I thought he was a doctor," the nurse said. "What makes you think he killed a lot of gooks?"

"'Cause he was in a firefight," the man answered. "That's how he got all shot up. Those Commies don't take kindly to us kicking their asses, I tell you! That's why they beat him half to death with a piece of chain. Took the skin right off him, Nurse Wilson said."

Margaret grabbed Sherman's arm. "Colonel!"

Sherman approached the principle speaker, Margaret and Mulcahy following a step behind. The group, noticing his bird, fell silent.

"Son," Sherman said to the loudest talker, "do you know one sure sign of a fool?"

The corpsman stood rigidly, eyes ahead. "No, sir."

"It's somebody who talks as if he knows something, without consulting the facts." Sherman stepped past him, with Margaret and Mulcahy in tow. When they were inside the doors, he couldn't help muttering to himself, "Jackass!"

Margaret clutched his arm. "Colonel, those awful things he said happened to Hawkeye -- they aren't true, are they?"

"I highly doubt it," Sherman answered. "Can you imagine Pierce shooting it out with anybody? I was there, you know, when we drove into an ambush. He wouldn't fire then even in self defense. That yahoo outside is just talking to make himself feel important."

Margaret, still fretting, walked ahead. "This way, sir. He'll be on this ward."

Sherman was content to follow Margaret's lead, her knowledge of the 121st's layout being fresher than his own. They wound down a couple of halls, then Margaret pointed. "Look. BJ."

Hunnicutt was pacing slowly outside a closed door about halfway down the hall. As they rounded the corner, they caught his eye. He turned and met them halfway.

Margaret stretched out a hand. "BJ, hi. How is he?"

"Fine. Just finishing up a call to his father."

"Is he hurt very badly?" Mulcahy cut in. "They were telling the wildest stories on the steps outside."

Hunnicutt frowned. "I don't know about any wild stories. There's been a lot of interest in his case because of his escape."

Margaret pounded his arm. "So how _is he?"_

"Thin," said Hunnicutt. "You'll notice that right off. Hawkeye doesn't want to make a big deal about it, so try not to fuss. But he's down about forty pounds, so prepare yourselves."

Mulcahy muttered, "That's better than fifty."

Hunnicutt grunted. Obviously he had his own opinions about Pierce's weight loss. So did Sherman. Pierce was down a quarter of his normal weight. He'd normally be hospitalized for a while on that basis alone.

"What about his other injuries?" Sherman asked quietly.

"Paik's assessment was on target," said Hunnicutt. "Hawk's got eight broken ribs, some dorsal and some ventral, so don't hug him too hard. That means you, Margaret. The ribs are healing, along with a hairline fracture of the zygomatic arch, but they're still tender. His bloodwork indicates malnutrition -- not surprisingly -- but no sign of any other problems. He's got an amazing constitution, considering what he's been through."

"We heard something about bullet wounds," said Mulcahy.

"He's got two," Hunnicutt said, surprising Sherman, who had been ready to write the whole thing off as a rumor. "Both superficial, on the left-hand side, one in the arm and one in the leg. The thigh wound is the most serious, but I cleaned and reclosed it, and I think it will mend all right. He limps a bit from it, though. Both wounds were mildly infected so I've put him on antibiotics. He's got a variety of cuts and scrapes that could benefit from that as well."

"When did Pierce get shot?" Sherman asked. 

"You know the exchange that didn't come off?" said Hunnicutt. "It turns out that the truck he was riding in was ambushed that very morning. The guerillas killed everyone but Hawk, who fortunately was already on the floor when the shooting started."

Margaret thumped Hunnicutt's shoulder. "See? I _told you the exchange not working out wasn't your fault!" _

"It would have been my fault," Hunnicutt countered. "It's just that the guerillas struck before the folks in Songnim could tell the guys in the truck that the switch was off."

"You don't _know that," Margaret insisted._

"It's a pretty safe bet," said Hunnicutt. "The only thing that isn't my fault that the ambush made the lack of exchange not my fault."

Mulcahy murmured, "And I thought_ I was hard on myself."_

The door Hunnicutt had been guarding down the hall opened. An angular figure in a dark blue hospital robe over light blue pajamas stepped out. He looked the wrong way first. "Beej?"

Margaret gave a little yelp and rushed forward. Pierce turned toward the sound of footsteps. His normally lean face was outright gaunt, but his smile was the same. He saw Margaret and laughed, holding out his arms.

Margaret launched herself toward him and threw her arms around his neck. At least she'd restrained herself enough not to knock him over. Pierce gathered her into his arms, rocking her while she whispered what were probably the sort of inanities that are best left private. Pierce grinned as the other three came up, and winked at Sherman over Margaret's shoulder. 

Sherman was having a hard time grinning back. He'd been warned, but Pierce's emaciation was still shocking. It would take months to get him back to a reasonable weight. Sherman noted the swelling under the left eye, no doubt a result of his fracture. He also noticed the bandages around Pierce's thin wrists, something Hunnicutt had left out of his report. Sherman couldn't help wondering what other details had been omitted. 

Margaret finally released her grip on Pierce's neck, but she didn't let go of him. She turned within the circle of his arms, putting her left arm around his waist as she wiped away tears with her free hand. 

"Colonel, Father," Pierce greeted them. "Thanks for coming."

Mulcahy said in a rush, "It's wonderful to see you, Hawkeye. We've all been so very worried. The 4077th hasn't been the same since you left."

Sherman was becoming sensitive to the crowd that was beginning to form at the end of the hall. Patients and staff alike lingered at the intersection, no doubt curious to see the "POW." Sherman put out his arms to scoot his party along. "Let's get out of the hall, boys and girl. Pierce, shall we step into your room?"

"Absolutely. It's a lovely little place just big enough for five. Or, if we were staying in North Korea, fifty." Pierce limped through the door, turning sideways to accommodate Margaret, who was still attached to his right side. Sherman shook his head. What a set of contradictions that woman was.

Pierce had been given a private room, doubtless because he hadn't been debriefed yet. There were no windows, but the standard-sized hospital bed was neatly made and there were three extra chairs, a wooden one in the corner and two folding chairs set to either side of a small table. A door to a tiny lavatory completed the Spartan setup. 

Pierce limped across the room then, unable to sit down because Margaret still had her arm around him, leaned against the edge of the bed. Margaret hardly seemed aware of it. She continued to hug him, dabbing at her eyes. At least she'd stopped crying for the moment. Hunnicutt shut the door behind them. 

Mulcahy walked toward the little table, chattering perkily. "As I was about to tell you, Hawkeye, you have been sorely missed. My bag is absolutely brimming with letters and good wishes from everyone at camp."

"You got my bathrobe and the still in there?" Pierce joked.

Mulcahy set his heavy bag on the table and began to rummage inside. "Actually, I do have a gift from Major Winchester."

"A gift?" Pierce raised his brows at Hunnicutt. Hunnicutt bobbed his shoulders in token of ignorance.

"Yes, here it is." Mulcahy retrieved what was obviously two liquor bottles independently wrapped in newsprint.

"He spared no expense, did he?" Pierce commented, provoking a chuckle from Hunnicutt.

Mulcahy extended the thicker bottle first. "He said this one is for here."

Pierce extended his free hand.

"I'll get it," said Hunnicutt, probably reacting to the fact that Margaret showed no signs of releasing Pierce yet, which would severely hamper the use of his right arm. Hunnicutt tore off the wrapping, then laughed. He held up an unlabeled bottle filled with clear liquid. "Hawk, you know what this is?"

Pierce shook his head. 

"The very last drop ever brewed in the still. I poured it off and corked it up a couple of days after you didn't come back from the line."

Pierce seemed surprised. "You stopped using the still?"

Mulcahy said, "It gradually turned into a place where people left little mementoes of you. I have many of those now in my bag."

Hunnicutt said, "The still itself is filled with nickels."

Pierce looked puzzled. "Why nickels?"

Hunnicutt shrugged. "It's sort of a `penny for your thoughts' kind of thing."

"Then why didn't you use pennies?"

"You were away. Long-distance thoughts cost more."

Sherman was relieved that Hunnicutt didn't give away the real meaning of the nickels. Pierce might not be too comfortable knowing that his will had been read while he was still alive.

"Yes, people have certainly been sending urgent thoughts your way," said Mulcahy. "We must have over four hundred dollars in nickels now, if you count everything in OR and Rosie's."

Pierce's eyes went round. "Four hundred dollars?"

Mulcahy was casual. "More or less."

Pierce waved a hand. "You keep it, Father. Give it to the orphans."

Mulcahy brightened, as he always did when someone supported his favorite cause. "Why, thank you, Hawkeye! That's very kind of you."

Pierce pointed to the second bottle. "What's that other one, Father?"

"Oh, this. Well..." Mulcahy tore off the wrapper, revealing a slim bottle of dark brown glass with an elaborate gold crest. "My goodness. This is Winchester's special Napoleon brandy." Mulcahy adjusted his glasses to read the label. "Cerbois Armagnac Vintage 1938." Mulcahy blinked. "Dear me! This is a rare vintage indeed!"

Pierce took the bottle gingerly. "I thought Charles would sooner eat with his hands than give away one of his precious brandies -- especially to someone like me."

"You mean, a person who drinks beer out of a can?" said Hunnicutt.

"And uses paper napkins, among other failings of the great unwashed." Pierce looked at Mulcahy. "Did Charles send a message along with this one?"

"Oh my, yes! I almost forgot." Mulcahy frowned in concentration. "He said this one was to welcome you home."

Pierce shook his head. "The big lug." He glanced around the room. "Hmm. No glasses."

Sherman smiled. "Save it for your father, Pierce."

Pierce was his typical stubborn self. "No, Colonel. Charles said this was to welcome me home. Well, the four of you are about as close to home as it gets without my dad. I'd really like to share a drink with you. Just one," he added, as Hunnicutt lifted a warning finger. "Don't worry. There'll be plenty left to carry home to Crabapple Cove."

Hunnicutt pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. "All right, I'll see if I can round up some glasses. In the mean time, the rest of you can tell Hawk anything you want to about the 4077th, but Hawkeye, you are not allowed to tell any stories except the truck one because I want to hear them, too."

"No stories," Pierce promised. 

"Good." Hunnicutt opened the door. "I'll be back in two shakes."

Pierce looked down at Margaret, who seemed content just to lean against his side. "So what happened at the 4077th while I was gone?"

Margaret shrugged. "Nothing!"

The four of them dissolved into laughter.

* * *

Margaret's spirits had been in a high state of flutter ever since Hawkeye's much-longed-for yet totally unanticipated phone call. To think, only the night before she'd resigned herself to believing that she wouldn't see him again for perhaps a very long time. 

Then the call had come. He'd sounded like himself, only tired. Well, that was to be expected, but still it worried her. She couldn't keep her mind on anything, could hardly keep her hands from knocking over items on her dressing table or fumbling things. She packed an overnight bag. The Colonel might not allow it, but she wanted to be ready just in case. And surely this was a special occasion. How many POWs get free on their own? They ought to give him special consideration just for that. Besides, who knew what nurse they might assign to him at the 121st? She could be busy, she could have other distractions, who knows? Hawkeye deserved to have somebody close by who knew him. True, BJ was there, but he had other duties, too. What Hawkeye needed was someone dedicated to his care. At least during these first couple of days, before they shipped him out.

Shipped him out, back home. Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat.

The journey to Seoul was an exercise in patience. Colonel Potter didn't drive as fast as Klinger always did. Margaret was exasperated enough during the drive down, but bit her nails off over the way the colonel slowly and deliberately wound his way through the dusty streets of Seoul. Klinger would have barreled through with horn blowing, trusting the pedestrians to look after their own lives. At last they reached Yongdungp'o, a couple of miles south of the capital and home to the 121st Evacuation Hospital, only to arrive to that horrendous discussion on the stairs. All the way to Hawkeye's room Margaret kept envisioning horrible disfiguring injuries. He didn't _sound as if he'd been hurt that badly. Would Hawkeye still make jokes if his skin had been beaten off and he was shot all to pieces? It didn't seem likely, and yet this _was_ Hawkeye they were talking about ..._

So seeing him standing there at last, looking much the same as he had done except for being way too thin, was a tremendous relief. It was a shock to feel his ribs and shoulder blades so clearly through the bulky hospital bathrobe. That is, it was nice to feel him in her arms, but disturbing at the same time. For the longest time she couldn't let go of him. At first she thought it was her duty to protect him; he looked so frail that she couldn't imagine him not needing help to stand up. Then, when he showed no signs of falling over, she wondered if she wasn't secretly worried that he might disappear again. After about half an hour of that, she finally decided that she didn't want to let go simply because she wanted to be touching him. Well, that wasn't so bad. No doubt the others would put it down to her being overprotective. Let them.

The conversation was mostly comfortable but peculiar. Hawkeye was clearly delighted to see them -- at least, it appeared that way -- but he was uncharacteristically evasive. Hawkeye picked up the story from where his last letter had left off. He recounted the events plainly, without embellishment. Somehow that made it all the more real, the understated way in which he relayed what must have been terrifying experiences. Margaret couldn't help staring at him in amazement sometimes. There he was, the same intonation to his voice (albeit strained with fatigue), the same facial expressions (looking strange in that too-thin face). There was a slim pink scar that ran from just beneath his bangs on the right-hand side to his eyebrow, no doubt the injury he'd gotten from falling that time. He seemed a lot more thoughtful, and smiled more than he laughed. He was the same, yet he wasn't. 

He wouldn't come clean about the details, either. Any time someone pressed him too closely, he shrugged it off or changed the subject. For example, that time when Colonel Potter questioned him about the bandages on his wrists.

"How did that happen, son?" he asked, pointing.

Hawkeye shrugged. "Just chafing from the manacles on the truck. I told you about that."

"But your wrists were injured before that."

Hawkeye looked wary. "How do you know that?" He shot a glance at BJ, who shook his head. Ah, BJ. She'd have to tackle him later, and find out what else he was hiding.

"It was in Paik's note that he sent with your first letter," said Colonel Potter. "He mentioned lacerations on your wrists."

"Oh." Hawkeye appeared to think back. "He probably meant rope burns. You remember, I wrote BJ about that."

"He said they were from the chains," Father Mulcahy added.

Hawkeye hesitated. Just when the pause would have become uncomfortable, he waved dismissively. "Chains, ropes, what's the difference? It's over. Beej, how about another shot of fruit juice? And what happened to your good socks? It looks like they're falling to pieces."

And so it went, for the hour and a quarter of their visit. Then the CID man came, and an officer from I Corps, and they shooed out everyone except Colonel Potter so Hawkeye could report to them. Margaret walked with BJ and Father Mulcahy to the canteen for refreshment. 

When they were settled on a bench in the cafeteria, Father Mulcahy inquired, "BJ, will Hawkeye be all right?"

BJ sat thoughtfully at one end of the long table, his untouched soda before him. "I think he'll heal up okay. It will take some time to get him back in the pink, but he'll survive." BJ shook his head. "God, when I think about what he's already had to survive..."

Margaret asked quietly, "What happened to him, BJ?"

BJ sighed heavily. "If you're asking about any details that he might have told me that he didn't reveal in there, the answer is `I don't know.' Seriously," BJ added, forestalling her protest. "He told me very little while I was dressing his wounds. You know how it is when you're working on someone. There really isn't a whole lot of talking you can do when you're telling someone, `now lie on your right side and hold your breath.'" BJ shrugged. "I guess he doesn't want to talk about it."

Margaret wouldn't be dismissed that easily. "But you know something, something you're not telling us."

"Only the evidence of my eyes," said BJ. "Father, you were right about the chains. He has some superficial irritation now, but at some point Hawkeye's wrists had been pretty badly injured. We're talking gouges, here. The wounds are largely healed, but I'm sure he'll be scarred for life. He has scars on his ankles, too, just not as bad."

Margaret said, "And you don't know what caused it."

"I don't know how the injuries occurred," said BJ. "He didn't volunteer it, and I didn't push."

Farther Mulcahy said, "He probably wants to forget the whole thing."

BJ grunted, and took a sip from his drink. 

"Is that the best thing to do?" Margaret asked.

"Hawkeye is a very generous person," said Father Mulcahy. "I'm sure he'll open up once he feels a little more secure."

"What can I do to help with that?" asked Margaret.

BJ smiled. "You seem to be doing a fine job so far."

Margaret blushed, to her embarrassment. She hadn't done anything to be ashamed of. Well, maybe she'd hung onto Hawkeye a little longer than was strictly necessary, but that was understandable. 

BJ wasn't helping. His smile grew into a grin. "Are my eyes playing tricks, or is Margaret Houlihan blushing?"

"None of your business, you ... you ... You men! You're all co-conspirators together."

Father Mulcahy patted her hand. "Now, Margaret, I think you're doing a wonderful job. Your dedication and support are just what Hawkeye needs right now."

BJ smirked over his drink. Margaret slapped his arm. "Stop that!"

"Can't I leave you people alone for ten minutes without it turning into a schoolyard ruckus?"

The three of them turned to see Colonel Potter arriving. He sat down heavily at the table, placing a cup of coffee before him.

"Back so soon, Colonel?" BJ asked.

"They wanted to hear Pierce's story without outside interference," said their CO. "I stayed long enough to express my complete confidence in Pierce's integrity. They said they'd follow up with me later. The rest of you should be prepared for a telephone call or a visit as well."

Mulcahy sounded concerned. "Surely they don't suspect Hawkeye of conspiring with the enemy."

"There's always a question of collusion in cases like this," Potter said flatly. "Did he make a deal to get out, and so on."

"But surely his injuries would suggest otherwise," said Mulcahy.

"Unfortunately, that argument can work both ways," said Potter. 

BJ was grim. "In other words, he may have bargained to save his neck."

Potter nodded.

Margaret felt anger blaze up within her. "Hawkeye would never do that!"

Potter patted her wrist. "Keep your voice down, Major." He leaned forward conspiratorially, keeping his voice low. They all bent closer to hear him.

"We all know Hawkeye's character," Potter said. "But I'm sure you must have noticed an element of evasion in his report." 

Margaret grimaced at the term, but could hardly deny what she'd observed for herself.

Mulcahy said, "Surely he's just unwilling to discuss painful memories."

"That's my hunch, too, Padre," said Potter, "but at this point it's only a hunch. None of us is qualified to figure out for sure what's behind it."

"So what do we do?" asked BJ.

Potter straightened. "We call in the big guns."

Margaret was bewildered. "What does that mean?"

Potter said, "I had Klinger place a few calls before we left camp. One of these was to our old friend Sidney Freedman." Potter took up his coffee. "He'll be flying in from Tokyo tomorrow morning."

"Thank heavens," said Mulcahy fervently. "I would hate for Hawkeye's homecoming to be marred by nasty suspicions of collusion."

Potter shot the priest a steely gaze. "I wouldn't say that so loudly, Padre."

"Oh, my goodness, yes." Mulcahy colored. "I forgot how this place churns out rumors."

Margaret hesitated, then decided to make her announcement. "Well, rumor mill or not, I want to stay with Captain Pierce tonight. _As his nurse!" she added, as BJ made eyes at her. She raised a fist. "And I'll __flatten anybody who says one word out of line, about him __or me!"_

"Well, Major," said Colonel Potter unflappably, "I suppose the 4077th could get along without you for one evening. I'll speak to the CO about having you rotate shifts with Hunnicutt tonight -- that is, I assume you'll be at hand?" he said to BJ.

"I'd better be," said BJ. "Otherwise, who knows how many flattened bodies will be littering the hall come morning?"

Margaret subsided with a growl. "You're impossible."

"Only on my good days."

Potter rose. "Well, we may as well head back, Padre. Those inquisitors could be in there for donkey's years."

"Yes, of course." Mulcahy stepped free of the bench. "Margaret, you'll make sure that Hawkeye sees the greetings from everyone?"

"We'll empty your bag tonight, Father," BJ promised.

"Very well, then," said Mulcahy. "Cheerio."

"Call me with a report in the morning, Major," said Potter.

"Yes, sir," Margaret affirmed.

The two men walked away. 

Margaret looked back to see BJ fiddling with his drink, an impish expression on his face. "So, Major," he said. "Would you like to take the first shift tonight, or the second?"

Margaret hesitated. "I think I'd prefer to take ... both."

They snickered over their drinks. It was such a relief to laugh, when so much of her felt like crying.

* * *

The session lasted almost three hours, but Hawkeye was fairly sure that his brass-bound visitors left satisfied. Hawkeye ushered them out the door, then climbed wearily onto his bed. He fell onto his back, sinking into the luxurious softness, and sighed. What a day. Could it only have been that morning that he was awakened from sleep, famished and dirt-encrusted, on a creaky sampan with two strangers he couldn't talk to as his only company? 

Oddly enough, it had been far easier to tell his story to those two Army clowns. They didn't care what had happened to him. What they wanted were facts, and Hawkeye could give them facts -- the conditions, the treatment of their prisoners, the men he'd seen killed. In a strange way the dispassionate interrogation let him put the thing at a distance, as if he was reporting things that had happened to somebody else. 

But they hadn't happened to somebody else. Hawkeye threw an arm across his eyes. These things had happened to him, and he was going to have to live with what he'd seen and been through -- somehow.

He heard the door open, and uncovered his eyes. BJ poked his head in. "Okay if I come in?"

"Beej, sure." Hawkeye propped himself on an elbow. 

BJ approached him uncertainly. "Is everything ... okay?"

"They're not gonna put me in the pokey, if that's what you're asking." He glanced curiously at the closed door. "Where are the others?"

"Mulcahy and Potter went back. Margaret wanted to stay. She's checking out her temporary quarters in the nurses' barracks. Personally I'd plan on her being here half the night -- that's if you don't mind, of course."

"Of course I don't mind. I'm glad she wants to stay." Hawkeye ran out of energy, staring into space.

BJ pulled up a chair. "You look exhausted. Do you want to nap until dinner?"

Hawkeye looked at the wall clock. He'd been aware that it was seventeen thirty, but had failed to associate the time with any type of eating behavior. "You people certainly eat a lot of meals."

"Three times a day, not including snacks." BJ's smile faded. "Are you undergoing a bit of culture shock?"

"I guess so. I've already eaten more today than I have for the whole previous week."

BJ looked sadder. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Hawkeye lay back. "No, it's all right. It's just strange."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Hawkeye closed his eyes. Anything he could do. What to do. He said, "How do you think it went today?"

"With the others?"

Hawkeye nodded, eyes still closed.

There was a pause, then BJ said, "They know you're holding back."

Hawkeye nodded, then rolled onto his side. He propped his head on a hand to face BJ. "I knew this would be rough."

"What is?"

"I can't lie to you."

BJ looked concerned. "Why would you need to lie?"

Hawkeye collapsed onto his pillow, closing his eyes again. He really was bone weary. "I saw some awful things, Beej."

"I know." BJ's voice was kind. "I kind of got a taste of that from your letter."

"I had no business putting those things in a letter. I was tired, and I used poor judgment." Hawkeye opened his eyes. "I'm sorry you ever had to read that, Beej."

"Don't be," said BJ strongly. "At least it gave me a feel for what you went through."

"No one knows what I went through." Hawkeye noticed BJ's troubled expression. "Oh, don't worry. I told those two guys just now everything."

"Meaning you didn't tell _us everything."_

Hawkeye winced. "I can't, Beej. You'd feel it too much."

"More than what I felt reading your letter?" BJ challenged.

Hawkeye was losing the battle against exhaustion. His eyes seemed to close on their own. "That's the problem, Beej. I didn't put the really bad stuff in my letter."

If BJ answered Hawkeye didn't hear him. He fell into a long, black tunnel of sleep.

* * *

Sherman received the call just before he headed out of his office that evening. He answered the phone himself. "MASH 4077th."

"Sherman? Embry, here."

Sherman straightened up out of habit. "Yes, General. What can I do for you?"

"I just received a preliminary report from the investigatory team," he said. "Their initial findings indicate that Captain Pierce appeared to conduct himself in a satisfactory manner during his confinement."

The word fell dully on Sherman's ear. "Satisfactory?"

"That's their current assessment. At this time, there appears to be no official reservation regarding the propriety of Pierce's conduct while he was a prisoner. Captain Pierce is off the hook."

Sherman did a slow burn. "Thank you, General. I appreciate hearing that."

"I thought you'd like to know. If you have any sort of commendation in mind, I'll willingly consider it -- pending final approval of the team's findings, of course."

"Thank you, General. I'd like to give it some more thought."

"Suit yourself. You know where to find me."

"Yes, sir. Thanks for calling."

Sherman replaced the phone rather more forcibly than was required. _Satisfactory. The decorated dunderhead. Unlike Sherman, Embry had never been a prisoner of war. Sherman remembered it only too vividly -- the Jerrys and their camps, the cheerless barracks and stultifying boredom. It didn't matter that Sherman's physical situation had been vastly superior to what Pierce had endured. The loss of one's freedom was always painful, and forced detainment a humiliating experience. Still, the nation's attitude had been different back in WW II; Sherman hadn't needed to cope with all the Commie balderdash that Pierce was having to put up with. It was bad enough to be mistreated by the enemy, without having to defend your actions to your own people._

Klinger rapped on the door, then entered. He was already stripped down to his skivvies and bathrobe. "Colonel, anything I can help you with at this late hour?"

"No, Klinger. I'm leaving now. You can go to bed."

"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you look like you could stand some sack time yourself."

Sherman rose stiffly. "That's what I was planning, but a call from General Embry delayed my departure."

Klinger stepped aside to let Sherman exit. "General Embry? What did he want?"

"He wanted to let me know that, at least for the present, they aren't planning to bring any charges against Pierce."

Klinger looked baffled. "Why would they do that, sir?"

Made stupid by fatigue, Sherman realized his mistake. He groped for a way to explain what he hadn't meant to let slip. "There's always a bit of hysteria that returning prisoners might have collaborated with the enemy."

"Captain Pierce wouldn't do that."

"Relax, Klinger. It looks as if the brass are leaning toward the same conclusion."

Sherman shuffled wearily out the door. Klinger followed. "Geez, sir. I had no idea that you could go to jail for being in prison."

"These are strange and turbulent times, Klinger." 

"Yes, sir. Sleep well, sir."

"Thank you, Corporal. Good night."

* * *

Hawkeye drifted to consciousness. At first he couldn't tell where he was; the room was still and quiet, and there was no smell of the sea. A lamp threw a soft glow across the room. Hawkeye looked over. Margaret was reading at the small table by the wall.

The hospital room. He was at the 121st Evac. Memory flooded back. He closed his eyes with relief. For several breaths he relished the feeling; he was free. He was safe. It was a tremendous gift, and he determined not to take it lightly in the future.

At length he stirred. Margaret looked up, then set aside her book and approached the bed. She was wearing her black sweater, the one he liked. Her hair glowed golden in the backlighting from the bulb. He had long considered her an attractive woman. Yet, tonight, he could see her only as a friend. Someone he knew. Someone he could count on. That fact seemed of overwhelming importance, although he couldn't have said why.

Margaret brushed back his bangs. Her gesture seemed unforced and natural, all the more surprising as Hawkeye couldn't remember her ever having done that before. "You slept a long time," she said in a low voice.

"That's the result of being unconscious."

"You didn't eat dinner. Can I bring you something?"

Hawkeye consulted his internal status, but the truth was he didn't know if he was hungry or not. It would take him a while to get used to paying attention to hunger pangs again. 

"In a bit," he decided. He reached for her near hand and took it into his own. Her fingers were small compared to his, and cool from the temperature of the room. Her skin, despite the frequent scrubbings for surgery, was soft, her nails short but polished. 

"You look a lot better," said Margaret. "More rested."

"I feel better." With his free hand, Hawkeye touched the side of her face, then her hair, which she was wearing loosely about her shoulders. The feel of it was even softer than he'd remembered. 

Margaret tipped her head to rest her cheek against the back of his hand, then almost immediately straightened, as if embarrassed about her display of emotion. "I should get you something to eat." She started briskly toward the door.

Hawkeye pushed himself up. "Margaret, wait." 

She stopped, but didn't turn around.

Hawkeye said, "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

Margaret fidgeted. "Oh, that's all right. You've been away a long time and --"

"I didn't mean for just now. I meant, from before."

"Before?" Margaret turned to face him. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and wariness.

Hawkeye held out a hand. "Come here."

Slowly she returned to the side of the bed. Hawkeye reached for her hand and held it. "Major, I'd like to officially apologize for all the mean, rotten, tasteless, and humiliating pranks that I pulled on you during my stint at the 4077th."

"Hawkeye --"

"No, let me finish. Some of it was in fun, but when I look at it honestly, a lot of it was just plain cruel. I was mad at being in the Army and I took it out on you as their local representative. That wasn't fair." He squeezed her hand. "I wanted to let you know that."

Margaret pursed her lips. "You weren't cruel."

"Yes, I was. I know cruel. I've just been through it. Having had more than my share recently, it bothers me more than you can know that I've ever been that way toward another human being." He caressed her hand. "Forgive me."

"Oh, Hawkeye. Of course I do." She brushed his hair back again, then pulled his head to rest against her. They stayed that way a moment, him holding her hand, her other hand resting on his forehead while his head rested against the soft black sweater, the pulse of her belly throbbing in his ear. 

She stroked his bangs. "BJ says you're not telling us everything."

Hawkeye gently disengaged to meet her eyes. "How can I? It's bad enough that one of us has to remember these things." 

Margaret smiled. She took his hand between both of hers, twining her fingers around his. "You know one of the things that I found most exasperating about you?"

"My erratic shaving habits."

"The way you never let me off the hook."

Hawkeye had to look away.

Margaret continued. "You never let me get away with hiding my emotions when I was upset about something."

Hawkeye said to the wall, "This is different."

"Oh?" she asked in that challenging way of hers. "How?"

Hawkeye turned back to her, feeling desperate. "Whatever I tell you, you'll have to live with. I don't want anyone to have to have the same ... images that I do."

Margaret squeezed his hand earnestly. "I'd understand."

Hawkeye caressed her fingers. "That's the problem. I think you _would_ understand. You and BJ both." He gave her hand a shake. "I don't want to hurt you again."

"You won't hurt me."

He gazed into Margaret's eyes. They were so tough, so cool, yet the fine lashes outlined eyes that only hours before had been filled with tears.

He lowered his gaze. "Please, Margaret. Just give me a little more time."

She kissed his forehead. "Don't forget to tell me when you're ready."

* * *

"Knock, knock."

Hawkeye looked up toward the door. He'd been going through the gifts and notes that Father Mulcahy had brought from the 4077th. The cheery words and good wishes left him feeling sad and lonely. He was glad to see BJ pop his head in. 

Hawkeye rose from the little table. "Beej."

BJ grinned. "I brought you a visitor."

He held the door wide, and a small, trim man with a mustache and a secretive smile entered the room.

Hawkeye felt a surge of joy. "Sidney!"

Sidney's smile broadened. "Welcome back, Captain."

Chuckling, Hawkeye embraced him, patting his back. "Thanks for dropping in. Is this a professional visit, or did you just happen to be in the neighborhood?"

"Colonel Potter told me the news yesterday, and I just had to come and see you for myself."

BJ headed for the door. "I'll leave you two to catch up."

"Tactful as always, Beej," said Hawkeye.

BJ lifted his hands innocently. "Hey, I have work to do." He waved and closed the door behind him.

Hawkeye gestured at the table. "Have a seat."

Sidney didn't take the suggestion. Instead, he picked up one of the mementoes lying on the table. 

"Gifts from the 4077th," Hawkeye explained.

"So I gathered." Sidney twirled the item in his hand -- a little grass ladder that Bigelow had woven for him, apparently to commemorate the water tower incident. 

"I won't make it back there," Hawkeye said.

Sidney focused on the ladder, apparently absorbed. "What makes you say that?"

"Tomorrow they're sending me to Tachikawa General. They want to fatten me up a little before they put me on the boat."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Oh, you've started with the `feeling' questions." Hawkeye pulled out his chair. "I guess we've begun."

Sidney didn't dissemble, something Hawkeye appreciated about him. Instead, the psychiatrist pulled out a chair to sit facing him. "Do you want to go back to the 4077th?"

Hawkeye dithered, then came clean. "Sidney, I look like hell. I don't want people to see me like this."

"BJ says you've put back five pounds already."

"That's just water," said Hawkeye. "The fact is, I don't feel that bad. I mean, sure, my ribs hurt and I limp and I can't walk the length of this hall without getting winded, but I really don't feel too bad, all things considered. I actually forget about my appearance for a while -- then I'll see someone staring, like when I went on that walk with BJ this morning. And all of a sudden I feel like this battered, used-up shell. I don't want to see that look on the faces of the people I used to work with. I want them to remember me the way I was. Does that sound foolish?"

"It makes perfect sense."

"I don't mind Beej and Margaret. I mean, I'm glad they're around. But they look so sad. Sometimes even with them I want to crawl away and hide."

"It's a strange thing about imprisonment," said Sidney. "You work so hard to get back to where you were, and when you finally get there, all you want to do is isolate yourself again."

Hawkeye hung on his words like a rope. "That's it. That's what I feel. Is that normal?"

"It's a stage you're going through," said Sidney. "You'll readjust, but you have to give yourself time."

"I think I need to. There are some people who I know would understand -- Colonel Potter, for instance. But I just can't seem to ..." A sudden pain in his chest kept Hawkeye from speaking any further.

"Your experiences will be with you the rest of your life," said Sidney. "You won't forget them. In fact, you may even remember more details, as time passes. The challenge for you is how to let those memories be part of your life without overwhelming it."

Hawkeye rose to his feet. He took two steps to the wall, his stride shortened by the size of the room and the stitches in his thigh. "I feel like I'm being overwhelmed right now. I had a dream last night, where I remembered ..."

The silence stretched out. "What?" Sidney prompted.

"It's this recurring dream I have. A memory, really, but it's always so ... vivid." Hawkeye found himself breathing more quickly, remembering. "I never made a fuss in prison. Sometimes I'd have nightmares, and I'd wake up in a cold sweat, but I never made a sound if I could help it. I thought that if I caused any trouble, they'd take me out and shoot me. They shot a lot of people, Sidney. The guy in the cell next to mine was crazy. He'd scream all the time. There was the quiet guy on my right who did nothing but meditate all day, and then there was this guy. He'd rush the guard when he brought him food and try to bite him. He'd howl and thrash around. One morning they hauled him off. That was shortly before they came to bring me to the hospital. I was walking through town and I heard a shot. It was muffled, far away. I looked towards the edge of town -- the hospital was on a hill, and I could see pretty far -- and the crazy guy was just falling into a pit. One of the guards had his pistol extended toward the space where he'd been standing. They were small and far off, but I could see it clearly. The guard stuck his pistol back in his belt. The dead guy was just lying there, on top of ... other bodies. The other guards were smoking, not even paying attention. They'd just killed this guy and it didn't mean anything to them." Hawkeye wiped the sweat from his face. "I told this story to those two jokers yesterday, and it didn't mean anything to them, either. They only cared about UN soldiers, or ROKs. They didn't care about a guy who for all we know might have been on our side before he went crazy."

Hawkeye felt weak after his confession. He drew out his chair and reseated himself. "I could never get that image out of my head. I thought that, when they were done with me, I'd find myself standing at the edge of that same pit someday, while a guard with a bored expression on his face blew my brains out."

Sidney waited a while, then said, "But that wasn't the only murder."

"Oh, no. Hell, no." Hawkeye scrubbed his face. "I saw enough murder on the front line to ruin my sleep for the rest of my life."

"I take it you don't mean battle-related deaths."

"No, although there were plenty of those. You could hardly avoid it. One time one of our makeshift wards took a direct hit. There were ... pieces of guys in the trees, like strange birds. Somebody must have eventually brought them down, but I was too busy trying to fix up the guys who were left. It was bad enough having to deal with these injuries in the OR. Out in the field we had nothing. Just our wits, a couple of bone saws, and occasionally a truck to take the wounded away."

"But there were murders on top of this."

"Yes. Four ROK guys. They marched them into camp. They made them dig their own graves. It was another of these matter-of-fact executions. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The guys were just standing there, then rifles cracked, and down they went."

Hawkeye closed his eyes. He could still see the scene, too vividly. The clouds were low over the mountains, the battle in the hills beyond producing occasional bursts of light and tiny towers of smoke that were no doubt suffocating clouds to the men below them.

Hawkeye forced out the words. "They ordered me to bury them." In his mind, he saw the squad leader thrust the shovel into his hands. "But, they weren't all dead. I saw one of the guys kick his foot. Another one was groaning."

"What did you do?"

Hawkeye covered his face. He still remembered the rain of blows on his back. "I wouldn't do it." They knocked him to the ground, where fists were replaced by boots. A blow to his face stunned him. One more kick, Hawkeye thought, and I'm in the grave with these guys.

"What finally happened?" Sidney prompted. 

In his mind, Hawkeye heard the crack of a rifle butt against skull. The groaning stopped. "They killed the hurt ones," he said. "Then they buried them."

Sidney sat silently for a while. Eventually Hawkeye recovered enough to force a bitter smile. "I Corps cared about that one. They wanted to know where the ridge was, so they could find the bodies. I couldn't tell them much except the approximate date and the layout of the hills. But I don't know how accurate my directions might be."

After a moment Sidney stirred. "I can see why you're reluctant to share this with BJ and Margaret --"

"There's more, Sidney."

The psychiatrist grew still. "Tell me about it."

Feminine screams filled his brain, the same agonized shriek that had jolted him awake the night before. "They brought a woman into camp."

"What woman?"

"Some local. I don't know who she was -- a villager, a suspected guerrilla, who knows." 

He could still see the dirty, grinning mob closing in. She disappeared under their numbers. Flames from the campfire turned the lurid scene into a high-contrast nightmare.

Sidney's voice dropped into the memory. "What happened to her?"

The screams curdled his blood. Her shrieks and the laughter of the men. Hawkeye had lunged to the end of his chain, shouting until he was hoarse. They'd ignored him.

"They killed her."

Eventually the enervated screams subsided to sobs, with an occasional plea for mercy. Hawkeye hunched miserably in his chair. "I couldn't help her, Sidney. The whole time I was at the front, whenever I wasn't working, they chained me to a stake, like a dog. I pulled at the manacles until my wrists bled, but I couldn't help her. I couldn't do anything." He drew a shuddering breath. "How do I live with that?"

Sidney paused in thought. Hawkeye could see that he was shaken, but he couldn't possibly be more shaken than Hawkeye was himself. After all, Sidney hadn't been there. He'd only heard the story.

Finally Sidney said, "Every man makes peace with the phantoms of his past in his own way. You've taken a big step today by telling me this."

"For all the good it did," Hawkeye grumbled.

"When the time is right, I think you'll be able to communicate enough of this to the people close to you to give you some peace."

Hawkeye raised his eyebrows. "Do you think I'm going to tell this to my _father? He's been through enough already."_

"Don't sell him short."

"I don't mean to. I just can't see myself talking about this to anyone -- anyone besides a professional head shrink, that is."

"And those two fellows from I Corps."

"Oh, those guys." Hawkeye sprang from his chair restlessly. "A lot they cared. As long as it was clear that I didn't give away any military secrets, having never known any in the first place, they didn't give a damn about what happened to any of us."

"And you do," said Sidney. "That's your weakness, Hawkeye, as well as your strength. You care about other people. It's how you get hurt. Ironically, it's also how you get well."

Hawkeye stared at him. "What should I do?"

"For now, rest. Take care of yourself. Let the folks at Tachikawa help you recover your health. I'm just a hop away in Tokyo, if you need me for the week or two before you ship out."

Hawkeye still felt anxious. "And what happens after that?"

"You can hook up with a psychiatrist on the mainland if you feel the need for one."

Hawkeye subsided. Eager as he was to get home, there was something a little nerve-wracking about leaving the support of the people he had come to rely on during his service here.

Sidney picked up on his hesitation. He said, "You're a healer, Hawkeye. My hunch is that, by helping to heal others, you'll help to heal yourself."

Hawkeye wasn't convinced. "I hope you're right, Sidney."

Sidney rose. "It's such a lovely day. Why don't we find Major Houlihan and go for a stroll about the grounds?"

Hawkeye nodded, then patted his friend on the shoulder. "Thanks, Sidney." He swallowed the lump on his throat. In less than twenty-four hours he'd be leaving. Once that happened, he could never be sure if he would see Margaret or Beej again.


	8. Dear Beej

**8. Dear Beej**

"Sherman, Sidney Freedman."

"Sidney!" he cried, with equal parts pleasure and anxiety. "How'd it go?"

"Pretty well," Sidney's voice said over the crackling line. "He has a ways to go yet, but at least he's started talking."

Sherman felt apprehensive. "Anything that I should know about?"

"Nothing of a security nature," said Sidney. "He's had some deeply disturbing experiences. He may eventually be able to share some of them in time."

Sherman remembered his own homecoming after WW II. Every time some neighbor asked him about what had happened over there, he either trotted out one of his stock combat stories or changed the subject. To this day hardly a handful of people knew what had happened to him after the battle of the Argonne Forest. 

"I can appreciate that," Sherman said.

"I thought you would. It's too bad, too, because I think Hawkeye would benefit from having a conversation with you. Unfortunately, it looks as if that's a little too overwhelming for him at the present time. I think your chat will have to be postponed until some quiet evening when you're both back in the States."

Sherman's heart sank. "The States."

"Yes. I'm endorsing the course of action proposed by the Evac. We'll move Hawkeye to Tachikawa General tomorrow. They have dieticians there who work with the hemorrhagic fever victims. Hawkeye's condition won't be so apparent there. Once he's gained back a little weight and can move comfortably, he'll head for the docks of Yokosuka and home."

Sherman said remorsefully, "I was afraid he wouldn't make it back to the 4077th."

"I don't think he's ready for that. He needs a little time to put this experience in perspective."

"How much time?"

Sidney paused, then said, "Hawkeye is a doctor, first and foremost. In all of his wartime experiences, the common thread was his adherence to the Hippocratic Oath. That applied to his detainment as well. There's always a mental component that helps get people through adversity of that type. With some men, it's hate -- pure, driven hatred of the enemy. With others, it's a belief, such as holding to the tenets of their religious faith."

"Or the Hippocratic Oath," said Sherman.

"Exactly. The code of the healer is Hawkeye's faith. No matter what situation he found himself in, he always held true to that creed. That was the continuous thread that allowed him to impose some sort of consistency and order on a situation that in all almost every other way was completely beyond his control. It was his determination to save every life he could that carried him through. And that determination is going to help him pull through the emotional aftermath of his imprisonment."

Sherman felt tired. "What should I do?"

"Later this afternoon, you might want to call and wish him well."

"And after that?"

"Time will tell."

* * *

Hawkeye stood under the warm spring sun next to the bus that would ferry him and several other patients to the military airport, where a transport plane would take them the next leg of the journey to Japan. His gear that BJ had brought down for him was stowed. His uniform was new. It felt stiff and awkward and hung on him like a baggy canvas sack. Beej stood solemnly by, hands in the pockets of his lab coat. Margaret, back in dress uniform for the road, fretted at his side as the loading drew to a close.

"You'll take care of yourself, won't you?" she asked.

"If I don't, Sidney will get after me," said Hawkeye. "He's promised to look in on me every few days."

"I'm glad." Margaret's eyes were sad. "I'm sorry that you won't be coming back to the 4077th, though."

"It's better this way," said Hawkeye. "Otherwise, Charles and I would fight to the death over who was the real chief surgeon, and BJ would have to come back from the Evac Hospital to take over. It would be a mess."

BJ grinned. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hawk."

Hawkeye looked startled. "I didn't mean it that way!"

"Sure, that's what you say now. Once you've gained back twenty pounds, you won't care what you say to hurt my feelings."

"Well, that's certainly true."

Margaret refused to be distracted by the banter. She asked, "You'll write, won't you?"

"Only if you promise to do the same," said Hawkeye. 

"Of course I will."

But to Hawkeye's eye she looked uncomfortable as she said it. He shot BJ a glance over her head, but his friend just shrugged his shoulders.

A private approached their little group. "Major, your jeep is ready."

"Thank you." Margaret turned back toward Hawkeye. Her eyes showed a telltale glisten. She put her arms around him gently. Hawkeye drew her close, enjoying the feel of her and the scent of her perfume. Reluctantly he relaxed his hold. Margaret pecked his cheek.

"Be well," she whispered.

"You, too." 

She slipped from his grasp. Still holding his hand, she slowly stepped back until his fingers fell away. She blew him a kiss, then turned to follow the private.

Behind him, corpsmen were buttoning up the bus. Hawkeye said to Beej, "I've got to go."

"Before you do..." BJ reached into his pocket, looking uneasy. "I wasn't sure if you would want these back or not." 

Sunlight flared on metal. With a shock, Hawkeye realized BJ was holding his dog tags. Hawkeye took them in wonder, the metal plates clinking against each other. "Where did you find them?" he asked.

"The search and recovery team found them after the battle." BJ paused. "SL and his crew didn't get very far."

"I see." Hawkeye hesitated, then put the tags around his neck. He forced a smile. "Look, Beej. I'm back in the Army."

BJ laughed. "Not for long."

"Thank God." Hawkeye's smile faded. He and BJ looked at each other, then stepped forward for a farewell hug.

"Keep in touch, Hawk," said BJ, releasing him. "Don't make us wonder again about what's happened to you."

"You, too," said Hawkeye. "I'm counting on you to get home."

"I'll follow in your footsteps, never fear."

Hawkeye climbed the metal rungs and found a seat near the back of the bus. BJ was visible a few feet away, frowning upward at the dirty window, his arm raised to shield his eyes from the sun. The driver ground the gears, and the bus shuddered forward. Hawkeye raised a hand, and BJ did the same. Dust rose from the wheels as the bus pulled away. In moments BJ's white coat was lost in the haze, and all that was left behind him was an impenetrable cloud.

* * *

June 2, 1953

Dear Beej,

I'm home at last, though I still don't believe it. It feels like a dream. That's far better than what we went through in Korea, when everything seemed like a nightmare.

The boat journey was completely anticlimactic. It was monotonous, tedious -- in other words, perfect. I ate, I slept, I walked the decks. It was refreshing to smell salt air again. I spent long hours leaning over the railing, watching the iron sea. The Pacific it might be, but the spring winds whipped up white caps and frequently misted me with spray. 

Actually, it was kind of nice to spend day after day not doing anything. I remember I once told Clete Roberts that when I got out, I wanted to do nothing for six months. Well, the leisurely trip from Yokosuka to San Francisco came close to filling that desire. Day after day of nothing but wind and water. They'd initially recruited me for short-arms inspection, but fortunately Dr. Shinonaga from Tachikawa gave me a permission slip to ride along as a complete vegetable, a request that Captain Elliott reluctantly honored. So I had nothing to do but stand outside day after day and let the wind do its best to blow through me. It felt very clean and restorative. I remember one day in particular. The sky was so gray you couldn't tell where the sea ended and the sky began. There were lots of little droplets spewing down that had chased everyone else off deck. I got out that last bottle that you'd saved from the still, Beej. I took it on deck. No one was around. I pitched it far across the waves, and the sea swallowed it. That was my farewell to Korea.

The homecoming in San Francisco was glorious. I hope it's as spectacular for you. At the first glimpse of coastline, everyone who was still below crammed onto the decks. I don't know how to explain it, Beej. They say home is where the heart is. I guess I'd left more of my heart over here than I'd realized, because that growing strip of craggy green was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. When the first buildings came into view, the mood onboard shifted to ecstatic. When we finally spotted Golden Gate Bridge, everyone went wild. I had total strangers pounding my back -- not altogether welcome attention, as I'm still a little short in the padding department. I myself couldn't cheer. As we drew near to the Golden Gate, Alcatraz held my eye. I kept watching those bleak walls as the ship steamed past, the whole stark complex perched on its rock that plunged sharply into the sea. Despite its proximity to the bay -- or maybe because of it -- the place struck me as painfully forlorn. I kept imagining what it would be like to be in there, instead of doing time in a converted storage room at Songnim. I understand that those guys were put there for a reason, but I couldn't help wondering which of them was staring at a stone wall that very moment, unable to see anything but granite or steel beyond the reach of his foot. The whole time that we pulled into the harbor, it seemed that Alcatraz was boring into my back.

Landing at the docks was great. There were a fair number of people there. Most of the guys disembarking were former casualties like me, although we had a few regular troops, reassignments or whatever. It was strange to see women dressed up again -- American women with hats and purses and handkerchiefs, not to mention high heels. I haven't seen anything like that since Klinger filed his frocks away. It seemed as if I had stepped back in time, except that the fashions were new. I looked over the faces from the deck as we docked, but I couldn't see any that I recognized. I have to admit, I was nervous. All I had seen were a few photographs, and the film we had conspired to make for your anniversary. I thought in the mob I'd walk right past her.

Then, as I shuffled toward the exit, suddenly she just leaped out of the crowd -- this absolutely gorgeous blonde and her enchanting little girl. Beej, you are one lucky man. Do you know that Erin has your eyes, exactly? And Peg Hunnicutt in person totally blows away Peg Hunnicutt in photographs. We shook hands formally while Erin hid behind her skirt. Don't worry, Beej; Erin didn't even _think_ of calling me "daddy." It took her most of our meeting just to quit hiding from me. But I'm a total stranger, and it was incredibly generous for Peg to meet me. Some of the guys didn't have anyone to meet them, and walked off alone. I thought that was kind of sad, even assuming that they had someone to meet them farther down the line, as I did. 

Anyway, Peg, Erin and I had a late lunch as planned. I was under no illusions that she was interested in any of my adventures. I was a link to you, and that's all -- as it should be. She didn't say anything directly, of course, but I could tell she was worried about you, and maybe my experiences were partly to blame for that. So I laid it on thick. The 121st is the best, safest hospital in the orient. There are GIs on every corner with the express mission of looking after you. It would be far more dangerous if you worked in San Francisco. She probably didn't believe two words out of three, but she seemed to relax a little. 

It was hard to know what to say. I tried to stay away from the tricky ground as much as possible, and concentrated on the little things -- what it was like to be your roomie in the Swamp, the triumphs you've had in surgery, some of the jokes you played on me and the rest of the staff. Peg hung on every word. As she got more involved in your Korean escapades, she forgot her self-consciousness -- after all, she was having lunch with a man she'd never met before -- and began asking me questions. I felt a little awkward, since I didn't know how much you had told her in your letters -- things like how many times the hospital had been bombed or whether you'd ever been in danger personally. I glossed over that as best I could. I think she knows I was being evasive, but she was too gracious to say so. If Peg ends up never really trusting me, Beej, it will be this first conversation that did it. But I didn't want her to worry, and I really think you'll be safe in Yongdungp'o until they let you go home.

When it came time to go, Peg saw me off to the airport. It felt so wrong, me meeting Peg and Erin without you there. Then again, I suppose in that case I would only be in the way. I hope you get home soon, Beej. When you've had a little time to get reacquainted with your family, just send the word. I'd love to see you all again.

I took the evening flight back to Maine, with only one connection in Chicago. I napped most of the way, so I was in pretty good shape when I arrived in Portland the next morning. I walked down the steps and into the terminal, and there was Dad waiting for me. It was funny, Beej. Until that moment, part of me wasn't sure whether or not I'd ever really get to see him again. But suddenly there he was, looking very much as he had before I left. The only difference was that he seemed a little older, with a few more creases in his face. I'm going to have a lot of making up to do for him for a long time, I think. Our reunion was quiet and enormously satisfying and perfect in every way. I hope your trip home will be the same.

He let me rest up that day, although mostly I just needed a shower and shave and chance to ditch my horrible Class As. If I never wear a uniform again in my life, it will be too soon for me. The next night we had a party, and I got to see all of my old friends. Dickie Barber and Toby Wilder and their families were there, and Marcia and Annette and Terry. Old friends. It was funny, because they didn't seem like _my_ friends anymore. They're still nice people, and I like them, but they seemed more like friends of this other person, this younger Hawkeye Pierce before he'd gone away to war. From the middle of the crowd it seemed as if I was looking at everyone through a telescope. They appeared sharp and clear and at the same time very distant. I just didn't feel part of them anymore. Maybe I have to go through some sort of civilian adjustment period. They had some gag gifts for me. The mayor came by (he and Dad are old buddies) and gave me the key to the city -- the latch for a lobster trap glued to a plaque. There were other silly things, like a toy doctor kit and civilian underwear (this last from Dickie Barber, and _not one of the ladies). It was rough because I knew they were doing their best to welcome me home, but no one there really knew what I'd been through, so they could only meet me partway. I guess part of me is still halfway around the world, walking through post-op trying to be professionally detached from the host of broken and missing limbs that reach up to me on every side. Part of me is still listening for choppers that will never come, and wondering how long this lull will last. My war senses have yet to go off alert._

The worst moment was when Tommy's parents stopped by. You missed meeting Tommy Gillis, Beej. He and I had been friends since the 5th grade. He died on my table in the OR. The Gillises were very nice about it. They said they knew that I had done everything possible. Which was just about nothing, because he had mostly bled out by the time I got to him. But there was this haunted look in their eyes. I imagine my dad had that look on his face far too many times in the last two and a half years. It kind of got to me, thinking about all those lives I didn't save. I know it comes with the territory. It's just different, somehow, when the territory is your own home in your own home town.

This letter is getting depressing and I didn't mean to do that. What I meant to tell you is that every minute of the day I hope for a speedy end to the war so you can all come home. If you ever see any of our old friends at the 4077th, tell them that I'm thinking about them. I'm going to write Radar, too. Potter said that he was worried about me. I doubt he'll be able to take any time away from the farm, but at least I can reassure him that I'm doing okay now.

I wish you the best of luck at the 121st and hope it works out. Stay safe, Beej. Come home so I can visit you. My love to Peg and Erin,

Hawkeye

* * *

My darling,

It's late in the evening, and all is calm. Erin is asleep after her busy day. We met Hawkeye's boat as planned. I was worried that I wouldn't recognize him after all that he'd been through, but he really looked very much the same as in the last picture you sent. His hair had more silver and his face was a little thin, that's all. I could see the white scar on his forehead against the darker color of his skin. He's as tall and lean as a fence post. His appearance gave Erin quite a shock -- I don't think she's used to anyone quite that tall (be warned, my darling). She spent the first hour hiding behind me as much as she could. When we reached the restaurant and Hawkeye and I settled down for some quiet conversation, then she began to come out of her shell. Hawkeye has a gentleness that makes him very approachable, except for that honking laugh that would send Erin scurrying away almost in terror. She even got used to that after a bit. I think, given time, she could come to be quite fond of her Uncle Hawkeye. 

Hawkeye tried to explain to me how far removed you are from the fighting. By my map it looks like only a few miles, but as both you and Hawkeye are at pains to reassure me, I suppose I must consider myself reassured. You've told me so much in your letters, but it was wonderful hearing the details from someone who was there. I can almost see the famous Swamp and your "enlisted men welcome" Officers Club. I would dearly like to meet Colonel Potter, too. Hawkeye speaks of you and the others with such warmth. I can see what you like about him. He was much quieter than I'd expected. I kept waiting every minute for him to make a pass at the waitress or some wise cracks about, oh, I don't know, the Army or his boat trip over here or something. But he seemed content to talk about you and his long posting at the 4077th, and play little finger games with Erin when she crept around the table to investigate him.

I have to admit that seeing him hurt me. Partly because I can see the strain of what he's been through in his reserved manners and reflective mood. Partly because I'm angry that you weren't given your freedom at the same time he was. I suppose it's only fair, that he was there longest so he should leave first. But wanted so badly for it to be you who was stepping off that boat. Erin's birthday is coming up in only a few weeks. Is there any chance that I'll be able to meet you at the dock in time for her special day?

I love you. I'll just keep saying that until I see you safe at home. Please, my darling. Come home soon.

Your own,

Peg

* * *

June 28

Hi, Hawk

Life at the 121st is okay. I still miss the folks at the 4077th, but on the whole I'm glad that I made the change. It hurts a little less knowing that you're no longer there. I think if I was still sleeping in the same bunk in the Swamp while you were safely home in Maine, I might have become a bit bitter. But here I can pretend that I'm on some extended medical conference. In my imagination you're still as close as the 4077th (if I need you to be there). Otherwise, you and Peg are just in my "hurry back to America" bucket that keeps getting filled to the brim.

I had an interesting visit the other day from everyone's favorite major. Margaret had come down for a couple of days to do some follow-up statistics on the 4077th's wounded. They're still not back to their former efficiency, which grates on her terribly. I think maybe in the old days she would have been upset because the lower efficiency rating might have reflected poorly on her self image as a head nurse or top-notch major. I think now she's concerned mainly because she really does see that rating as a measure of human lives. She mentioned you often -- usually in contrast to Charles. "When Hawkeye Pierce was chief surgeon," and so on. It was funny seeing Margaret so vigorously supporting you. I think she's trying to make you into a legend at the 121st. She might even succeed. Your MASH record, you know, is still unrivaled.

She was obviously dying to wheedle some news about you from me, without it seeming as if she _wanted_ any news about you, so I made it easy for her and just told her everything, including the fact that you'd dated a couple of times, but hadn't seemed to connect with anyone so far. I hope I wasn't too far out of line. She seemed pretty interested in any details about your life there. She again mentioned wanting to give up Army nursing and return to the States. I wonder if maybe you're influencing that decision a little. After all, you were thinking about going back to work at a hospital one of these days. Then again, I could be imagining things. But you might want to drop her a line if you haven't yet. It's just a thought.

Speaking of work, I'd better get back to it. We're doing a boom business this month. The Chinese have apparently doubled their ammunition _again, and the wounded Chinese we see are in much better condition -- fresher and better fed. That little stunt that Syngman Rhee pulled letting all those Communist prisoners go didn't help. We all keep hoping that an end is in sight, but from where I sit, it looks as if this war could go on for a long time._

I hope to see you someday, if not soon. Take care of yourself, buddy.

BJ

* * *

Hawkeye stood on the platform at the busy bus terminus in Portland, watching folks emerge from the express. The growl of motors and reek of diesel fumes added their unwelcome contribution to a warm July day. Hawkeye shifted from foot to foot, eager to pick up his charge and get away.

There he was now, climbing down the bus's steep steps with his compact suitcase held high, modeling the latest in Iowan casual wear. He looked much the same, only browner and a little leaner. The boyish look had been trimmed away, to reveal the man that Hawkeye had always known was underneath.

Hawkeye raised his hand. "Radar!"

The young man halted at the base of the steps. Hawkeye could see the top of his curly head turning from side to side in a vain attempt to see through the crowd. One thing that _hadn't changed: Radar's height._

Hawkeye plunged into the chaos at the side of the bus, where disembarking passengers struggled to reclaim their bags amid the barriers of luggage that the new arrivals had piled up for loading. Hawkeye edged his way through the crowd, keeping his eyes on the familiar, tousled head whose hairline had prematurely begun to recede.

A family of six cousins and as many children (or so it seemed) stepped aside, and suddenly Hawkeye and Radar were face to face. The peculiarity of seeing Radar in civilian dress, not to mention at a bus stop in Portland, Maine, was offset by Hawkeye's honest delight in seeing him. Hawkeye collected him in a hug and pounded his back.

"Radar, good to see you!"

Radar's return hug was not as boisterous as Hawkeye's, in keeping with his character, but was certainly as sincere. "It's good to see you too, Hawkeye. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm in fine fettle. Come on, let's get out of here."

Hawkeye had left his dad's old sedan parked by the curb outside. He guided Radar toward it and popped open the trunk. When he reached for Radar's bag, Radar said, "I've got it, sir," and lifted it in himself.

"Radar, you're not company clerk anymore. You don't have to schlep bags for anybody." 

Radar looked embarrassed. "It's my own bag, Hawkeye."

"Remember that name, Radar." At Radar's puzzled look, Hawkeye added, "I'm not a `sir' now, to you or anyone. And I hope I never end up being a `sir' again."

Radar looked surprised. "Did I call you `sir?'"

Hawkeye grinned and slapped Radar on the shoulder. "Let's go."

He walked around to the driver's side and pulled the door open. Radar walked more slowly toward the passenger side, looking at the car. Hawkeye frowned. "What is it?"

"Your car."

"It's my dad's car. What about it?"

Radar shrugged. "It's green."

Hawkeye took another look at the Chevy's faded aqua finish, then broke into a wry chuckle.

Before long they were out of the city, heading up the wooded, winding roads toward Crabapple Cove. Hawkeye said, "Don't get me wrong, Radar. It's great to see you, and big-hearted of you to visit. I'm just surprised that you wanted to make the trip."

"Gee whillickers, sir. How could I _not see you, after ... you know."_

Hawkeye smiled softly. "I know, Radar, and I appreciate your concern. I'm just surprised you were able to tear yourself away from home. It _is only three months since the wedding. Not that you bothered to _tell_ us about your wedding until after the fact. Were you afraid that we'd try to talk you out of it, as if you were contemplating getting another tattoo?"_

Radar colored at Hawkeye's remarks, but quickly protested. "No, sir -- Hawkeye, I mean. Colonel Potter had told me to find a nice girl and Patty's the swellest. The truth is things started moving really fast with me and her and by the time I got around to writing the colonel about it, that's when I found out that you had been missing all that time. It just didn't seem worth making a big to-do when everyone was so upset and all. I mean it was a big deal to me and to folks in Iowa and in Missouri, but over there everyone was still fighting the war."

Radar's words carried Hawkeye's thoughts back to Korea. They were still fighting the war over there right now. Potter, BJ, Margaret, Father Mulcahy -- all of them. Hawkeye clenched his jaw.

Radar asked, "What is it?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "I was just remembering your letter, the first one you'd sent after you'd been home a couple of months. You said sometimes you forgot to think about us, then when you did, you'd miss us twice as much."

"I still feel that way."

Hawkeye smiled at him. "I know. Now I feel that way, too."

"I think that's why Patty said I should come visit you. She knows sometimes ..."

Radar's voice trailed off. Hawkeye shot him a glance. "What?"

Radar gazed fixedly through the windshield, but he didn't seem to be taking in any of the scenery. He said shyly, "Do you ever remember things sometimes? Things from over there?"

Hawkeye's heart rate picked up. He forced a normal tone to his voice. "Sure I do." 

"Sometimes it bothers me," Radar said. "I'll be asleep and not worried about anything, not consciously anyway and then all of a sudden I'll remember something. Sometimes I don't even know I'm dreaming it, and then Patty wakes me up and I realize that I was back there, remembering things."

Hawkeye's hands tightened on the wheel. Mentally he replayed a scene that had already happened too many times since his return. The darkness of his room would bring to mind the cramped space and dead air of the bench seat on the sampan. The stink of mold and the skittering of insects would give way to the sickly patter of cool rat feet, their tiny nails sharp as they swarmed over him on the chill dungeon floor. Sometimes he'd be bound, struggling to burst his chains while anguished screams split the night -- only to startle awake to his father's touch and worried eyes. _What is it, son? Another nightmare?_

Radar spoke into the silence. "Hawkeye? Are you okay?"

Hawkeye became aware of his trembling hands. "It's okay, Radar," he said tightly. He had to stop the car. His limbs felt shaky, and that was no way to navigate these narrow roads. Nature rewarded him with a break in the trees. To his right, distant whitecaps churned against a rocky beach far below. Hawkeye pulled off the road onto the little overlook. He stopped the car and closed his eyes.

Radar sounded worried. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye. I didn't ought to have said anything."

"No, it's all right," Hawkeye managed. He drew in a steadying breath, then lifted his head. Radar had turned in his seat to face him. He looked like himself and yet not like himself. He was a man, a civilian man with a farm and a wife and mother under his care, a veteran of a war that still deviled his dreams after months of being stateside. 

Hawkeye said, "Want to walk a bit?"

Radar nodded solemnly. 

Hawkeye popped open his door and stepped out onto the gravel. He took in the fresh air and sunshine with relief. Radar fell in at his side as he walked to the edge of the promontory. The grass grew long just before the cliff dropped away in a rocky tumble to the barren shoreline below. Hawkeye sat in the grass and looked out over the sea. Radar sat silently at his side. For a while neither said anything.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come," Radar said at last.

Hawkeye shook his head, then put a companionable arm around his young friend's shoulders. "You're a lot wiser than anyone gives you credit for, Radar. Myself included. I won't underestimate you again."

Radar looked troubled. "I'm not sure what you mean. I only wanted to tell you what Patty thought. She knew I kept having these dreams, and I just wondered ..."

"If I have nightmares too?" Hawkeye chuckled humorlessly. "All the time. Sometimes not for a day or two, and other times every night."

Radar hesitated. "Do you ... see anyone about it?"

Hawkeye shook his head.

"Me neither. Usually it's not so bad. Then sometimes I think about the wounded -- you know, all those people we tried to help. It's like I can still see their faces."

"Me, too, Radar."

"It's strange. It's like, while I was in it, I just did what I had to do. I didn't think about it. Well, sometimes I did. I guess that's why I went a little goofy. You know, with the ... teddy bear." Radar mumbled the last two words. "Dr. Freedman said I wouldn't need him after I left. I guess he was right. I mean, I'm not sorry I left him behind. It's just that I think, some of this stuff I will never leave behind me."

"None of us will." Hawkeye plucked up a seed-heavy piece of grass and popped the end into his mouth. He chewed the sweet end of the stem. "I thought my memories were starting to fade. I guess they can't be, if one short conversation with you can so quickly bring them to the surface again."

"Gosh, Hawkeye, I didn't mean to."

"Stop apologizing! It's good to see you. As a matter of fact, it's starting to put a lot of things into focus."

"What things?"

Hawkeye threw away the grass stem. "After I came home, I started hanging out with my old friends. I tried to put everything about the war behind me. But there's a part of me that's still plugged into it. That's the part that writes to BJ and listens to the news and hopes that the negotiations will finally get somewhere this time. It's as if the war has divided me into two people. There's the Hawkeye Pierce that went to war, and there's the Hawkeye Pierce that's desperately trying to become a civilian again, and failing."

"I know what you mean. That's why I'm so glad Patty was a nurse in Korea. It makes it easy to talk to her."

Hawkeye found his interest raised. "Do you talk about the war?"

"Sometimes. It's not like we talk about it a whole lot. We have so much else to do, what with running the farm, and Patty's job at the doctor's office and everything. She works there during the day, but before she goes she helps with the chores and she does it again when she comes home. Mom is real glad she's there because she pitches in and really gets things done. And then when I wanted to take this trip her brother came up for a few days to help out, so it's worked out really good for me in a lot of ways."

Hawkeye mulled what Radar had said. "Did you tell Patty much about your time at the MASH?"

"Oh, sure," said Radar. Hawkeye envied him the ease with which he spoke about it. "I mean, I told her about our work and the people and all, you and Colonel Potter and Major Houlihan and everybody. It really helps knowing she knows some of the stuff we all went through." He smiled shyly. "She's a whole lot better than my teddy bear."

Hawkeye chuckled. "My dad's a lot better than the still." 

Radar barked a laugh. "The still! That's not the same."

"A crutch is a crutch, Radar. In every way that matters, the still was exactly the same as your teddy bear. I left it behind in Korea. That's where it belongs."

Radar's smile faded. He returned to the topic that by now Hawkeye understood was the real reason behind his visit. "So you talk to your dad when you remember things?"

Hawkeye leaned back on an elbow. The salt-laden breeze was a perfect counterpoint to the July sun. "I write to BJ a lot." 

"I'm glad you and Captain Hunnicutt are still friends. There's nothing like talking to someone who was there, who knows what you've been through."

"You said it," said Hawkeye, but he wasn't thinking of BJ. He was thinking about Margaret. His correspondence with her was sporadic and unsatisfying -- all surface trivialities and little of the heart. He didn't know why his thoughts kept turning back to her. Maybe it was because, like Patty, she had been there. She would be capable of understanding the painful aftermath of war that Hawkeye found so difficult to assimilate into a civilian culture. The ladies in the environs of Crabapple Cove, however well meaning, simply couldn't. There was a gulf between them and his soul that made any kind of lasting relationship impossible.

Hawkeye got to his feet and brushed the grass from his clothes. Radar followed suit. "Well, Radar, I'm sorry about the side trip, but I know how infrequently you folks from the heartland get to see our beautiful coastline."

Radar laughed his peculiar giggle, and walked with Hawkeye to the car. Hawkeye felt increased respect for the young man beside him. Despite his cares, Radar had a look of contentment about him. No matter what had happened to him in Korea -- the wounding and terror that he had experienced firsthand or through others -- Radar was complete. His dreams might occasionally interrupt his peace of mind, but he had built a home and a life for himself in spite of all that. He had weathered his personal storms very well.

Radar had found his way out. Maybe, with his example, so would Hawkeye.

* * *

July 28 

Beej, thank God!

I can't believe it's finally over. My dad and I listened to the broadcast during those final moments when the guns went silent. We had some people over and they popped a champagne cork, but I had to go outside and sit quietly for a bit. At long last, you're going home. I wish I could be there, and give everyone the fond farewell that I should have given them back when I left Korea all those weeks before, had I felt up to it at the time.

Don't forget me once you're safely back in California. That is, you're allowed to forget me for one full month, but you'd better remember me sometime after that or I'm likely to be insulted. 

Give my best to Colonel Potter, and to Father Mulcahy and Klinger and the rest. If Charles comes back to Boston I may even see him sometime. I'm officially rehabilitated now and thinking about looking for a job. I doubt it will be at Boston Mercy, but I'm hoping for some sort of hospital situation. My father's family practice is starting to look a little too quiet for the likes of me. I can't believe I'm saying that after only two months back in the States. I guess surgery is in my blood.

Listen, do you know anything about Margaret's plans after the unit breaks up? You mentioned once that she was thinking about quitting the military, but I wondered if she'd said anything about that lately. I have this suspicion that she'll disappear into the khaki bureaucracy and I'll never hear from her again. I'm hoping that you'll run into some folks from the 4077th before you go. If you can find out anything about her plans, I'd appreciate hearing it.

Well, I'd better get this into the mail quick, or it's likely to miss you. In fact, it's likely to miss you anyway, but I guess I've learned to have a little more faith in the Korean postal system than I formerly did. 

Take care of yourself, Beej. Have a safe journey back. Please give my best warm wishes to Peg and Erin. You can add as much to that as you want to when you see them.

I hope it won't be too many months before I see you again. In the mean time, Beej, welcome home.

Hawkeye

* * *

Dear Margaret,

I expect that it's pretty chaotic over there, with all the units mustering out and being reconsolidated. I know you probably have your hands full, but I couldn't let you fade into the sunset (as I'm afraid you might) without trying to get one last letter through. I've been meaning to tell you a few things for a while now, but the time never seemed right. Now I've run out of time, so here goes.

I suppose it will come as no surprise that I didn't always fully appreciate you. But, to be fair, I think that an objective observer might conclude that you didn't always appreciate me either. But wherever we started out, I want you to know that you are now one of the dearest people in the world to me. When you came to meet me at the 121st, that's when I finally felt like I was home. It was your smile and your welcoming embrace that rooted me to the ground and made me _feel_ that I was free. I'll never forget that, or the care and friendship you showed me during those disorienting couple of days. We've taken a long road to get to know and trust each other. I'm just sorry that it didn't happen sooner.

It was the war that brought us together. Now that it's over, I have the feeling that our changed circumstances will cause us to drift apart. I hope that doesn't happen. I'm looking for a job in one of the major hospitals, probably in Portland. Even if I end up relocating, I'll always be reachable through Crabapple Cove. Drop me a line any time. Or better yet, come by in person. I don't expect I'll be making a move for a few weeks at least. Still, I have no idea how long it will take you to wrap up your work there. Come when you can, if you'd like to.

Even if you don't find your way to my doorstep someday, please know how important you've been me. Wherever you go, wherever your travels lead you, my thoughts go with you.

With fondest wishes for a happy life,

Hawkeye

* * *

Fishing gear in hand, Hawkeye stepped out onto his front porch, and stopped dead. 

Margaret Houlihan was standing on his doorstep.

Hawkeye stared in absolute amazement. She was wearing a peach summer dress and pumps. Her hair was pulled up off her neck in deference to the late August weather, but stylishly, not in that severe fashion favored by nurses in the military. Her clear blue eyes gazed up at him with just a hint of trepidation.

"Margaret."

"Hello, Hawkeye," she said hesitantly. 

He did the only thing he could. He set down his rod and tackle box, took one step forward, and pulled her into his arms. As she melted into his embrace, Hawkeye felt a knot of tension ease inside himself that he hadn't even known was there. He closed his eyes with relief. "God, you feel good," he murmured into her hair.

"So do you," she answered. Her hands felt wonderful against his back.

He stood away to look at her. Her eyes were sparkling, all nervousness driven away. "You look good," she said. "Really."

"You look great!" And she did. She was like a last golden drop of summer that had crystallized on his front porch. In the light material she looked much smaller than she had as a major. Less formidable. More womanly.

Hawkeye realized he was staring. He stood back and reached for the door. "Would you like to come in?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Hawkeye held the door for her, and she walked by. She had changed her perfume again. He didn't know what it was, but he liked it. Something rich. He followed her in.

It should have been strange seeing Margaret in his childhood home. The living room was small, with the two armchairs and sofa huddled around the fireplace, dormant but still fragrant with a hint of wood smoke in the summer. All of their comfortable knickknacks stood about on the natural wood furniture, slightly dusty in the rays of morning sun slanting through the open window. Margaret stood a couple of steps into the room -- all the farther she could go before hitting either an end table, chair, or sofa. Her eyes were drawn toward the array of family photographs lining the mantelpiece. Absently she set aside her purse and traveling gloves on the small table, not looking or noticing what she did, almost as if she already belonged there and had repeated the same action many times before.

"My father will be back in a couple of hours," Hawkeye said.

Margaret shot him a puzzled glance. "He works on Saturdays?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "Emergency. One of the neighborhood kids broke his arm."

"Is the boy all right?"

"Fine. Dad told me not to wait for him. Although, if we hadn't had that little excitement this morning, we would have been long gone by now."

Margaret looked abashed. "I should have called first."

"Not at all. I just hate to think that I might have missed you."

Margaret raised her eyes to his. They were so blue. The remembered intensity of them caused his heart to beat a little faster. "Did you?" she asked. "Miss me?"

Hawkeye took her hand, and guided her around the furniture to sit on the sofa. He paused to collect his thoughts.

"I used to have this idea," he began, "back when I first went to Korea. I thought that, when I finally came home, I could forget everything that ever happened there. Just, blot it from my mind. Then, later, I began to realize that that would never happen. I knew that those experiences had made a lasting impression on me. I thought that, if I knew and accepted that as the case, then I could still go on with my life somewhat normally."

Margaret stroked his hand, which he still held. "And did that happen?"

"Surprisingly it did, to an extent. I started work three weeks ago down in Portland, at the trauma department of Maine Medical."

"How's it going?"

"I think it will work out. I've started looking for a place down there."

"I never pictured you leaving Crabapple Cove so soon."

"I've been here almost three months. Don't get me wrong -- I could stay with my dad forever. It's just that this town feels too small for me now. I've got wanderlust or something. I've got to move on." He tickled her fingers. "How about you?"

"Well, I've been interested in a posting at a stateside hospital, as you know."

"Posting." Hawkeye reassessed. "So you're still in the Army."

Margaret evaded his eyes. "For now. Anyway, Portland was the logical place to start. It's the biggest city in Maine."

Hawkeye tried to catch her eye. "There's nothing `logical' about starting in Portland, out of all the cities in the United States, except that it happens to be in Maine." Margaret continued to look at the floor. "Margaret, did you want to be near me?"

Margaret said dully, "I wasn't sure how you'd feel about that. After all, seeing me must bring up memories that I'm sure you'd rather forget. I understand if that's the case."

Hawkeye put a finger under her chin, and gently tilted up her head to face him. "The memories are there. They'll never go away, whether you're here or not."

"Hawkeye, I'm sorry it was so horrible for you. I didn't want --"

Hawkeye kissed her hand, the flow of words stopping with her surprise. "Don't worry about it. I think I've got a better handle on how to deal with all this since I talked to Radar."

"Radar!" Margaret cried. "What could he have to say?"

"It's more something that he did, something very wise." Hawkeye shrugged in humorous self deprecation. "I think a lot. Maybe too much. Sometimes you just have to act. That's what Radar did. He found a wife who had served in Korea, who understands what it was like over there. It made a bridge for him into civilian life."

"That's what I need," said Margaret thoughtfully. "A bridge into civilian life. The Army is all I've ever known. I'm not sure how to _be_ a civilian."

Hawkeye caressed her fingers. "How would you like your personal civilian instructor? Someone who was the rottenest soldier in the whole world?"

Margaret ducked her head. "I think I'd like that very much."

And then, because he felt he ought to take his own advice, Hawkeye leaned forward and kissed her. 

It was electric between them, the way it always was, the way he suspected it always would be. Despite all their seeming differences, they were common creatures under the skin. Certainly his skin was on fire now. It was like sparks all over him at the consuming touch of her.

They dissolved into a tangle of limbs. Eventually they broke off the kiss to come up for air. Margaret's arms were about his neck, her breath coming short with excitement. "Hawkeye," she murmured, "we started out hating each other."

He stroked her beautiful face. "I'm glad that's not where we ended up."

They needed no more words after that. Their reunion was even more magnificent than he'd imagined it would be.

* * *

Dear Beej,

That's fantastic! I'm so glad you can do it. I can't wait to see you all. Dad is dying to meet you as well. So far we have the Potters and O'Reillys caravanning in from the West, and Father Mulcahy is bringing his sister. The Winchesters are definitely coming, and we've heard rumors that they've persuaded Charles to tear himself away from Boston Mercy for one weekend. I even tracked down Trapper John -- _that was a memorable call. He's promised to come, even though he's still half convinced that it's all a practical joke. _

The only one from the old gang who'll be missing is Klinger -- that crazy Toledo scrounger. Well, I can hardly argue with his reason. We plan to send him and Soon-Lee a Care package that includes a piece of the cake.

Let me know your flight arrangements, and we'll be happy to pick you up. I want to see Erin's face after her first plane ride. This is so strange, how everything worked out. But I guess we never know what kind of curve life is going to throw us. All I can say, Beej, is I'm glad that it threw you into the mix.

Margaret says to send you a kiss, but I think she'd better deliver it in person. I feel silly kissing an envelope. Make whatever plans you need to, and let me know soonest. 

Love from both of us,

Hawkeye

_The End_


	9. Flying Free

**Coda: Flying Free**

_A/N: I would like to thank the many people who have sent me comments about this story in the two years since I've posted it. Although I was not able to get back to everyone personally, I want to take this opportunity to thank each of you for your kind words and interest. Kind words mean a lot to an author, and your interest helps keep these wonderful characters alive. I hope they go on having adventures in our minds and hearts for many years to come. Peace. _

The sun beat down on the swarm of tents, booths, and straw hats that cluttered the fairground. A perpetual haze of dirt hung in the air, kicked up by the feet of the crowd as they shuffled over the baking earth. The squeals of children, fair rides, and the occasional hog split the general drone. It was a fine Iowa gathering, despite the heat.

Walter O'Reilly stood under the shelter of his particular tent, surrounded by the wire cages housing his current passion. The coos of the pigeons rose meekly around him. Most of them huddled with droopy or closed lids on their perches. One bird, his favorite, Walter held in his hand. The surprisingly warm feet gripped the upper edge of his left hand, while he stroked the beautiful mottled gray plumage with his right.

A passerby stepped in under the awning. "Whew, it's hot!" He drew an arm across his pink, sweaty forehead, then fanned himself with his hat. The nearest pigeons slitted their eyes against the sudden breeze, but didn't otherwise stir. "It's nice to be out of the sun, friend, but isn't it a bit _ripe_ in here?" The man grinned.

Walter suppressed a flash of irritation. He liked the smell of animals. All animals were okay by him. Well, maybe pigs could get a little overpowering, unless you gave them a big enough yard to run in. "I don't mind it," he said.

The stranger leaned forward to peer into the cages, blinking – no doubt still dazzled from the sunlight. "What you got there, doves?"

"Racing pigeons," said Walter.

"Huh." The man straightened. "You really race those things?"

"I took top prize with this fellah at our last meet. He found his way back across three hundred miles, which maybe doesn't sound like much, but there was a storm and not many of the birds got through."

The newcomer seemed impressed. "Three hundred miles?"

"It's not the distance," Walter explained. "It's the difficulty of the journey." He stroked the bird fondly. "This here's an older fellah. He's got a great homing instinct. He'll never get lost."

"What's his name?"

"Hawkeye."

The man barked a laugh. "Hawkeye! What kind of name is that for a pigeon?"

Walter narrowed his eyes. "It's the name for the kind of fellow who will always find his way home, no matter what. And he does, too."

The man raised his hands. "All right, buddy. No offense. I was just asking."

The man moved on, and Walter was glad to see him go. Walter stroked his champion soothingly. "You don't have to be a hawk to be named Hawkeye,'" he murmured. "You just have to have the heart."

The pigeon cooed.

#

Francis waited patiently for Toby to look up from where he sat sullenly, tracing a nail against the cracked rim of the linoleum table in the youth center.

One of the things that had delighted Francis when he first started working with the deaf was their wonderful sense of humor. Apparently the world was a funnier place to those who made their way through it without the benefit of standard hearing. Their refreshing outlook did much to pull Francis out of his post-Korean funk, and put his self-pitying preoccupation with his own recent deafness into the proper perspective.

But Toby was different. He was a typical teenager – sullen, withdrawn, and borderline hostile. He'd had a tough background for an American, and Francis wouldn't minimize that. Yet, after having seen his Korean children pull through crises that would have bowled this young man over, Francis was more interested in getting Toby to stop dwelling on his setbacks and focus on his opportunities.

Francis opened and closed the fingers of his right hand rapidly, "flashing" into Toby's peripheral vision for attention. Toby's brown eyes lifted, the line of his mouth grim and nothing but resentment in his eyes.

Francis signed to him. Despite his years of practice, he still mentally translated the phrases into sentences. He supposed he probably always would, particularly as he kept reading and writing. The students who didn't like to read or write, like Toby, came up with some interesting sentence constructions indeed.

_What will you do now?_ Francis signed.

Toby's response was a cursory flash of his fingers that Francis wouldn't have been able to decipher when he had first started this ministry. _Who cares?_

_You must care, first of all. Only you can choose your path._

_I didn't choose to lose my parents! _Toby's face was angry.

_We can't choose our circumstances,_ Francis signed back. _Only our response to them._

Toby wrinkled his face. _Are you going to tell me about how you were a hearing person until the war? _

Francis smiled, pleased by the boy's perception. _Actually, I was thinking of another man I knew. He came through more adversity than anyone I know._

_And came out a better person, I'll bet, _Toby signed wryly.

_I don't know. _Francis was genuinely puzzled. _He was a very good man going in. I do think, at the end of it all, perhaps he understood his heart a little better. _

_And that's all? _

_What more do you want?_ Francis paused, to allow Toby to ponder. _We don't always know how our lives affect others. But the effect is there, Toby. What we do inspires others, touches others – even when we are not conscious of it ourselves._

Toby pursed his lips. _I don't inspire anyone. _

_How do you know?_

Toby blinked, caught off guard. _I just know. No one sees me._ Toby ended with a frustrated thump on his chest.

_Sometimes,_ Francis signed back, _it is when we feel most alone that we have the most profound effect on others. The more difficult our circumstances, the greater the inspiration. _

Toby flicked his thumb hard across the bottom of his chin in disagreement.

_When you have seen it with your own eyes,_ Francis signed_, you will be astonished at how true it is. _

Toby looked doubtful. _You're crazy,_ he signed, but not emphatically, and when he turned away his expression was thoughtful.

Then the discernment that was Francis' gift from the war let him hear, faintly, the creak of a rusty door swinging open somewhere in Toby's soul -- the squeak of a long-unused window being pushed up to let in a little air. And Francis knew that he had been heard. Someday Toby would walk out of the wilderness under his own power, however battered, just like the other man that Francis had known. And on that day, even through his joy, Francis knew that he also would feel sadness – an aching regret for all the suffering that was the portion of the living to endure. And he would pray again for understanding: how pain can lead to insight, how evil sets the stage for greatness of spirit, and so is overcome.

Yes, on that day Francis would rejoice, even as he would cry for all the hurt and loss in this world. But that was as it must be, and Francis was content.

#

"Doctor!"

The salutation startled Charles out of his reverie – thank goodness. He shouldn't be standing in the hall like this, clipboard in hand, lost in his own little world. Not quite the image he wanted to project for the chief of thoracic surgery.

Charles blinked and forced himself to focus on the person responsible for this timely interruption – or persons, rather. Two young surgical nurses stood before him, one eyeing him teasingly, and the other with trepidation. Charles had no idea which of the twain had addressed him.

He smiled chivalrously. "I beg your pardon, I was wool gathering. How may I help you?"

"That's just it, Doctor," said the older of the two. Judith, was that her name? In her second year of residency, he believed. Competent, though a bit too irreverent for Charles' taste.

Charles shook himself. He seemed to be missing a vital aspect of this communication. "_What_ is it?"

"What does it mean when you stare into space like that?"

Fortunately for Judith, before Charles could frame a response that likely would have been a tad more frigid than she would have cared to stomach, she gave a deprecating smile. It gave Charles pause – enough to let Judith get out another sentence. "It's none of our business, I know," the girl continued politely. "But Alyssa and I just wondered."

Alyssa merely watched him with big eyes, seemingly over-awed by her own brashness. It was this, more than anything, that let Charles allow the inquiry to continue.

He lowered his voice. "I do that a lot, hmm? Certainly I must, if you two are questioning me about it."

Judith shrugged. "Not a lot. But … now and then. You stop, and go still, and you lift your head as if you're listening to something very faint and far away."

Charles felt warmth rush to his cheeks, and pushed the emotion down. He cleared his throat. "I had no idea that I had such an obvious and unusual habit."

"Only the people who are around you a lot would really notice it," said Judith. "I asked Trish about it, and she said that you've always been that way, ever since she joined the unit."

"I see." As uncomfortable as Charles felt discussing his personal life with the staff, he supposed an explanation was preferable to speculation, given that his "habit" had already apparently generated a certain amount of gossip. Charles forged ahead. "Well, my dear, the reason I lift my head and appear to be listening is that I am, in fact … listening."

The girls exchanged a glance. Alyssa spoke up for the first time, in an awed whisper. "What are you listening to, Doctor?"

"Music."

"Music." Judith's clipped response held more dubiousness than awe.

Alyssa, meanwhile, moved straight from awe to confusion. "You mean, music like what they play over the PA?"

"I mean music that I listen to, here." Charles tapped the side of his head.

"You hear music in your head?" Alyssa moved on rapidly from confusion to fear. Her ignorance was almost comical. Oh, Charles, were you ever so young?

"There's nothing frightening about it, my dear," Charles explained. "Music is my refuge. There's nothing more mysterious about it than that."

"Really?" Judith's sentence was more of a challenge than a question. She looked bewildered. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

Charles was almost insulted – until he remembered that he rarely played any music except while in his office or safely at home. "Why should this strike you as surprising?"

Judith met his eyes. "Last Christmas, when the whole department went to the symphony for our big celebration? You were one of the only people who didn't go." She shrugged. "I just assumed you didn't like music."

"Music is my passion," Charles said. "It just so happened that, for Christmas … at certain times, certain seasons, my memory is stirred." He smiled apologetically. "I simply couldn't face Mozart – not at that time. Certainly not among so many people." He drew an uneasy breath. "Indeed, there are few instances when I'm strong enough to listen to Mozart at all."

Alyssa had moved back to confusion, apparently her strong suit. "Why do you have to be strong to listen to music?"

"Because it conveys so much. Even those who do not consider themselves connoisseurs must surely be aware of it – how music positively brims with connotation, expression, emotion … memory." Charles reined himself in, enough to lighten his tone. "It can be overwhelming, the effect of music on one's life. Overpowering, in some cases. In my case, it certainly is."

Judith was fast as ever off the mark. "So when you listen to music in your head, you're revisiting old memories?"

"On occasion. Often it is merely a pressure valve, my private means of escape when I must clear my mind and gather my resources. At least, it is what I had always assumed to be my private means of escape, until your questions informed me as to it being otherwise."

"Oh, I don't think there's anything wrong with it," Judith said, with the unthinking arrogance of youth. "It's just …"

"Odd?" Charles finished for her. He was rewarded for his temerity by seeing her blush. "Yes, it might seem a bit odd if one has never had to recast an overwhelming event into a more bearable form – yet this is what happened to me. Music, which had always been my refuge, had become linked with … well, let us say, a painful incident that I knew I would never be able to forget. Fortunately, the strongest man I ever knew had introduced me to this little trick – how to listen to music without hearing it. The events that led to this discovery have always deeply moved me. So, inevitably, when I remember the pain associated with music, I am forced also to recall its saving power. And so he saved music for me -- a deed of which I'm certain he is entirely unaware, but for which I am no less profoundly grateful."

Alyssa exchanged a look with Judith. "Well, you've told us a whole lot, Doctor, but I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"I don't think you can understand," Charles said kindly. "Not until it happens to you. Then you will know."

"Who was he?" asked Judith. "That strong man you mentioned?"

"Another doctor. A surgeon I served with in the war."

"Ah," said Judith, as if all was suddenly made clear. And who knows? Charles thought. Perhaps for her it was.

#

When BJ saw the old man sitting at the corner, he shifted his grip on Erin to his left hand, while his right groped through his pocket for some change. Erin watched curiously as he sorted through the pile of change, nudging free three quarters and one nickel. He dropped the assortment into the old man's hat as he went by.

"Get yourself something to eat, okay, pal?"

The old man, hair awry and eyes watery, thanked him with a hoarse voice.

Together with Erin, BJ stepped off the curb to cross the street.

Erin took big steps to keep up, although at six she kept pace pretty well, even with BJ's long legs. "Why do you always do that, Daddy?"

"I don't like to see people hungry," said BJ, as they reached the far curb.

"That's not what I meant."

BJ lifted Erin by her wrist so she could jump onto the curb the way she liked. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"You always add a nickel. Whenever you give money, you always put a nickel, too."

BJ paused, embarrassed at being found out. "You're a clever girl, to notice that."

"So why do you do it?"

BJ hesitated, then hoisted Erin onto his hip so they could talk more quietly. "I had a friend once who was starving. I didn't have any way to help him. Lots of us missed him, but he was far away and no one could reach him."

Erin pondered BJ with large, serious eyes. "Was he missing like Uncle Hawkeye was missing, Daddy?"

BJ felt another blush of embarrassment. Erin was growing up too fast, if she kept catching him out like this. Erin had only met her "uncle" twice, but she clearly adored him. BJ hoped his revelation about Hawkeye wouldn't upset her. "As a matter of fact, it _was_ your Uncle Hawkeye. We all missed him very much. Whenever we felt that way, we would put down a nickel for him."

"Why?"

"Because Hawkeye once gave his friend a nickel, and it made us feel better if we gave a nickel to somebody, too."

Erin knitted her puffy baby eyebrows. "So you give a nickel to starving people …"

"Because none of my nickels ever reached Uncle Hawkeye." BJ nuzzled her chin. "Silly, isn't it?"

Erin answered seriously, "Not if you like Uncle Hawkeye."

"Oh, I think we'll always like Uncle Hawkeye. Don't you?"

"Yes. He's funny."

"He is that."

BJ set Erin down, but she tugged at his arm. "Daddy, can I give the nickel next time?"

BJ gave her a kiss. "Yes, you can, baby girl. You most definitely can."

#

Max's heart beat fast as he took in the vastness of the American Midwest spread out below him. It was so unlike Korea – the flatness, the patchwork of cultivated fields, the numerous ponds and lakes. Max swallowed hard. _Home._ After too many years, he was coming home.

Beside him, Soon-Lee said softly, "Is that the lake?"

Max squeezed her hand, reluctant to turn his gaze from the window. "Not yet, sweetheart. You'll know it when you see it."

"I don't know how. I have never seen it before."

"You'll know."

Max stroked her hand. Such a fine-boned hand, so very strong. She was an amazing woman, his Soon-Lee. They had searched for two years before they had finally located all the missing members of her family – all those who had survived the horrible war, and its desperate aftermath. Max counted himself lucky. As an ex-GI, his little bit of mustering-out money went a long way. In Korea, they were actually rich. It had been a great help to them all, as Soon-Lee's family tried to rebuild their lives after the war's devastation.

All that had taken time. Yet Max had been patient. He had known, somehow, that Soon-Lee understood his need to go home. Finally, four years after the war's end, they were actually doing it. The remembered sights, left behind so long ago, kept closing Max's throat with emotion. Yet how intimidating it must be to his wife. How brave she had been in San Francisco, where they had caught their connecting flight. Here she was, a small Korean woman, swept to a strange land to meet the even stranger characters of Klinger's extensive clan. He wouldn't blame her if she wanted to run away and hide. In fact, he'd offered her the choice of remaining behind, when his trip at long last took shape. But she only shook her head. "Where you go, I go." And that was the end of the matter.

As they flew, Max couldn't help thinking of the friends he'd made in the Service, friends he'd never seen in their native land. Max still remembered Captain Hunnicutt's address in Mill Valley. Yet, when the time came for his trip, Max had been too intimidated to write to him. The war was well over, and his stateside friends had all moved on with their lives. Most of them had married, just as he had done. Even Captain Pierce and Major Houlihan had married – married each other, no less! You could have knocked Max over with a feather when he read _that_ letter. That was a few years ago. He guessed they were happy – they would have killed each other if they weren't. Perhaps they were killing each other right now. No. Max shook his head. If a visit to Captain Hunnicutt was intimidating, the idea of dropping in on Mr. and Mrs. Pierce was downright terrifying.

Colonel Potter, now, that was a different story. Max could picture himself dropping in on the colonel. Such a kindly man. He'd kept up a correspondence with Max, despite Max's tardy and sporadic replies. They weren't so far away from each other, anymore. After all those years in Korea, Missouri seemed hardly a hop, skip, and a jump from Illinois. And Radar's farm was between them, more or less. Perhaps Max could convince the colonel to travel north, and he'd go west, and they'd meet at Radar's farm. Farms were slightly less daunting to Max, after all that time he'd spent helping Soon-Lee's family set up theirs. He would face being on a farm for a while, if it meant that he could see his old friends again. Max's eyes misted, as his mind went back. He could see all of their faces, so clearly…

Beside him, Soon-Lee gasped and tightened her grip. "That's it!"

Max looked ahead. A blue field of sun sparkle stretched away to the horizon. The pain of familiarity leaped into his chest. Tenderly, he squeezed his wife's hand. "I told you you'd know it." He cleared his throat. "Lake Erie. And all those buildings right before it? Toledo."

"Toledo," Soon-Lee whispered, as if she were about to enter a temple.

And it was, in a way: the temple of Max Klinger's life. The thing that had housed everything dear to him – everything until he had met the sweet girl at his side. Only she could have kept him away. And now she was here, with him. Coming to his home.

Until this moment, the war had never really ended. But now, as the plane began its final descent, its grip finally fell away. Max felt it go, released as surely as the flood of tears that streamed down his face. Tears that Soon-Lee gently kissed away.

#

Hawkeye stretched his long legs before him, listening to the pop and crackle of the fire. Margaret lay against him, her hands tucked under her chin and her head pillowed upon his chest. Idly, Hawkeye ran his hand up and down her back, stroking the soft sweater and softer hair that covered the strong, straight back. Her chest rose and fell steadily; she'd held out long past her usual bedtime, and had finally succumbed to sleep. Her soft breathing was like music to Hawkeye's ears.

Colonel Potter (Retired) sat in the overstuffed armchair across from him. His glass of port gleamed in the glow of the dying fire, his watery gray eyes fixed on the flames. Potter looked smaller in his civvies than he had in uniform. Though still active, he had become slightly frail in the years since his retirement. Hawkeye observed the changes with regret. Sherman Potter was more than his former commanding officer. In a way, he'd become Hawkeye's surrogate father during those terrible years of war. He'd been a guide and a lifeline. Tonight, Hawkeye had learned that he still was.

Softly he asked, "When were you finally liberated?"

"May 16th," Potter answered promptly. But then, he'd told the entire tale straightforward and factually, as Hawkeye had imagined he would. "I spent some time in France, of course, rehabilitating. It wasn't over for us, you know. Everyone in Europe was celebrating – people were dancing in the streets. But for many of us, the Pacific War was still going on."

Hawkeye stared. "They were going to send you to _that_ – after what you'd been through?"

"Everyone who could serve," Sherman confirmed in his growly voice. "I'd been lucky. Our work detail always had food. Not much of it; I don't need to tell you how low prisoners of war rank when it comes to rations. But there was enough to keep us on our feet, shoveling snow and clearing roads and the like. So many fellows had it much, much worse. And some of those camps…" Sherman shook his head. The weary eyes looked bleak. "I'll never forget it, seeing what these people had been doing to one another. The walking skeletons – or worse, the ones who couldn't walk." Sherman lifted his eyes to Hawkeye's. "That's what made it so hard for me, seeing you again at the 121st. I jumped back eight years, to that little French town somewhere near Varennes-en-Argonne, where they were taking in the former prisoners on stretchers." Potter swallowed hard. "You don't forget…"

Hawkeye nodded solemnly. No, you don't forget. He remembered it all – the missing limbs, the blasted bodies, the tragic eyes of those he couldn't help. Somehow, their suffering meant more to him than his own. Hawkeye had come through his time of trial, sustained by his will and the love of his friends. He hugged Margaret tighter; she nestled closer in her sleep. Hawkeye said, in a voice husky with emotion, "You didn't tell anyone."

Potter shook his head. "I didn't see the point of it. There was work to do, and I did it. I wasn't debriefed the way you were. There were so many of us, and the war wasn't over. When it finally was, I was so glad to get back to Mrs. Potter that I just wanted to put it all behind me. There were years to reclaim. You never get them back, of course, but I was determined not to lose any more of 'em, wallowing in the past."

Hawkeye nodded. He also avoided … wallowing, at least ordinarily. But for some reason this evening Sherman had suddenly started talking, quietly and matter-of-factly, about his imprisonment during World War II. Hawkeye had listened, spellbound, as the quiet words brought up memory after memory of his own. He'd told things to Potter tonight that he'd never mentioned to anyone – not even to Margaret. She'd been there for most of it, holding his hand, drinking in his words, weeping with his sadness. Potter had merely nodded. Of course he understood. And they kept talking, long after Margaret had drifted off, riding those endless waves to an unseen shore.

Hawkeye glanced at his unconscious wife. "Mildred must know something."

Sherman chuckled, and sipped his drink. "Yes, she wheedled it out of me, dear soul. Enough to give her peace." He smiled at Hawkeye. "How long did it take our Major to do the same operation on you?"

Hawkeye snorted. "A few months. We had to … find our way around to it."

"It's a fine woman who won't give up on you," Sherman nodded. "And an even better one who knows when to push."

Hawkeye felt an inking of suspicion. "Did Margaret ask you to talk about this?" Hawkeye had privately determined that Mildred was in on the conspiracy, ever since she had excused herself upstairs just before Sherman began his astounding story. Hawkeye had to admire her for it; her tactful withdrawal had left Hawkeye free to respond in whatever way he might need to. With only Potter and Margaret as his audience, he had no public image to uphold. It made Hawkeye fall in love with the Potters all over again. He only hoped that, as the years advanced, he and Margaret would make so wise a couple.

"You can't blame your lovely wife this time -- or mine, either," Sherman grinned. "Truth be told, it was Sidney who put me up to it."

"Sidney!" Hawkeye sat up in astonishment, drawing a sleepy murmur of protest from Margaret. "Are you still in touch with him?"

"I'm not, more's the pity. No, he made this request to me the evening after he first spoke to you at the 121st. He could see you weren't ready to talk. He said you needed time. Well, it's been four years. I figured that was time enough – particularly at my age."

Hawkeye was astounded. "You're one hell of a commanding officer – no, I mean that. And a _hell_ of a committed doctor."

"If you called me a stubborn old cuss who doesn't know when to call it quits, you'd be closer to the truth. But you've been so happy lately, you and Margaret. I judged it was time."

Hawkeye thought back over the evening's discussion. Sherman's experience inevitably brought up comparisons to Hawkeye's own. The appalling brutality that he had witnessed equaled the worst of Hawkeye's nightmares. It was terrifying and frustrating and infuriating -- but somehow, it had become bearable. That was the miracle. However Sherman had determined it, his timing was right.

"How long did it take you to tell _your_ story, the first time?"

"I don't suppose I've ever told anyone the entire story, not like you've heard it tonight. But there was a time, not too long after the war, when my old double-U-double-U-one buddies decided to get together. You might remember them – the tontine we made. Geonelli hadn't made it through the second war, but the rest of us got together, all who were left: Stein and Gretzky and me. They were the first to hear my story. Now, tonight, you and Margaret were the second." Potter polished off his drink.

Hawkeye looked away into the fire, blinking rapidly. Sometimes his heart was so full, it closed his throat. How blessed Hawkeye had been, so very blessed in his friends and family. Huskily he whispered, "Thank you."

"Thank _you_, Hawkeye." Potter's eyes, heavy lidded as they were, were still keen. "I don't just mean for tonight."

Hawkeye hesitated. "Is it better for you, having spoken about this?"

Potter pondered the fire. At length he said, "I think so. But there's no sense in making it out to be more than it is. My life's been a fine thing overall, Hawkeye, and I'm glad to have lived it."

Hawkeye nodded. He didn't need the reminder, these days. Gently, he jostled Margaret's shoulder. "Sweetheart? Time for bed."

"Mmm." Her arms snaked about his neck. "Potter's talking," she murmured.

"He's stopped."

Sherman's eyes twinkled. "I hope I didn't always have this effect on her."

"I'm amazed she lasted as long as she did." Hawkeye shifted to prop Margaret against him. She groaned as she sat up, eyes still closed. Hawkeye shook his head. It always amazed him, to see that huge belly sprouting from such a narrow form. He took one of her hands and kissed it. "Do you want me to carry you?"

"I c'n walk." Her head bobbed, and her eyes blinked. Suddenly they opened wider, as she spotted Potter grinning from his chair. She sat up. "Oh, did I fall asleep?" She pushed back her hair. "How rude."

"Don't be foolish, Margaret," said Potter. "It's I who should apologize, talking on into the wee hours the way I've done."

"Come on." Hawkeye worked an arm behind her shoulders. "Let's get you up."

"Oof!" Margaret heaved her bulk off the couch. She would have lost her balance, save for Hawkeye's steadying arm. Margaret placed a hand on her belly, in the way of pregnant women everywhere. "I'm as big as a house."

Potter shook his head. "You're as bad as Mildred. Once the little one gets here, you'll forget all this and be happier than ever – just as you were when your first little one was born."

"I won't forget it," Margaret puffed, taking a shaky step. "It just won't … bother me so much, to remember."

Hawkeye exchanged a startled glance with Sherman. His former CO winked. Hawkeye looked back to find Margaret staring at him. "What?"

Hawkeye shrugged to cover his confusion. "I think you've just stated tonight's theme."

She took another swaying step towards the door. "What theme?"

"Embracing life," said Potter cheerily. "_Joi de vivre._ Putting all those awkward moments behind you."

"At this moment," Margaret huffed, "I think I've got all my awkwardness in front of me."

"Not for long," said Hawkeye. "Two more weeks."

"Ugh. It will seem like two months."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful," said Hawkeye, "if that were true?"

Margaret stared. "You want two more months of me – like _this_?"

"If I could make weeks into months with you, I would. That means I'd have you all the longer to love." He kissed the side of her face.

Potter pushed himself up briskly. "Well, it's time for me to be going!" He headed for the stairs. "Don't feel you have to get up too early. Mildred and I know our way around by now." He chucked Margaret under the chin as he passed. "Sleep well." He disappeared up the stairs.

Hawkeye shook his head. "How does he do it?"

"What?"

"Read minds. He always seems to know the right thing to say or do."

"Yes, it's terribly annoying. Speaking of which –"

"I know. Pit stop."

"Thank you, mind reader. And hurry."

Later, as Hawkeye helped her up the stairs, Margaret said, "It really was a special evening, wasn't it? No, that's not the right word. _Important_, I think."

"Yes. It was."

Hawkeye guided her around the banister to their room. The Potters were staying across the hall. The nursery was next to the master bedroom.

"I'll look in on Daniel," Hawkeye whispered in his wife's ear.

Margaret gave him a kiss. "Don't be long."

"What do I get if I'm on time?"

Margaret stroked his cheek. "Fresh."

"I'm only fresh because you've spoiled me."

Margaret chuckled. He watched her silhouette disappear into the door of their room, and then pushed open the nursery door.

The crib was next to the wall, set in readiness. Under the window, a larger bed, still with side rails, contained a rumpled blanket. Hawkeye drew near to peep in.

One rosy cheek was turned towards the door. The dark locks were damp, tousled over the round baby brow. Little Daniel Alvin Pierce, named after both of their fathers. Once again Hawkeye felt the joy swell in his breast, happiness so strong it had to come out in a smile on his face. He could almost hear his heart singing.

The breaths were quick and loud – deep, unconscious baby breaths. Hawkeye stroked the chubby cheek. He whispered, "You and me, and baby makes … four. Will you like that, little fellow?"

Daniel went on breathing. Hawkeye straightened, then backed away and softly closed the door. Ahead of him Margaret was waiting, and the rest of his life.

_The End_

#

**Author's note: **

I'd like to thank everyone for the wonderful and inspiring feedback that they've given me regarding this story in the two years since I first posted it. This novelette is the result of one of those rare but exciting occasions when the story leaps out and demands to be written. For weeks I was drawn towards the computer as soon as I was awake, to continue the saga of Hawkeye and his dear friends at the 4077th.

My inspiration for the piece was twofold. First, I had always been intrigued with how the characters might have reacted had they been able to hear the message that Hawkeye had penned for each of them in his will in the episode "Where There's a Will." This is reproduced word-for-word at the end of in Chapter 2. (At least, it's verbatim according to the edited version of MASH that I've seen on broadcast TV. It's possible that the original version of the show might have more words from Hawkeye to his friends in the two minutes that were cut out. I've always wondered whether some words might be missing, as his message to Charles seems to begin with a sentence fragment.)

The second is that I've long been interested in the plight of prisoners of war. I had already read several books on the subject, mostly from World War II, focusing on American prisoners of Germany and Japan and the experience of holocaust survivors. When I started writing this story, I went on a search to find books focusing on the Korean War. I used John Toland's book, _In Mortal Combat: Korea, 1950-1953,_ as one of my principle sources. His accounts focused on various soldiers' experiences, including some gripping tales of men stranded behind enemy lines. One of his stories detailed the snatch pickup rescue method that Colonel Potter talks about in Chapter 4, and how a nutty intelligence man botched the mission, causing all the men to be captured. Flagg immediately sprang to mind.

After reading his book, however, I despaired of ever getting Hawkeye across enemy lines. It seemed impossible for a sick and injured man to work his way across the heavily guarded front. Then I ran across the amazing story of "Cave Man" Lt. Donald Thomas, a downed navigator who ended up spending more time uncaptured behind enemy lines than anyone else (you can find his story under ). He eventually escaped by boat, and so Hawkeye's rescue was accomplished. I owe an even greater debt to Bob Festa, who wrote "13 Months as a POW" at the same web site. I carried over many of his experiences to Hawkeye's confinement, from the treatment of prisoners to their diet. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the many servicemen and women who shared their harrowing and moving war experiences. Your bravery and sacrifice is honored and appreciated.

I also looked up many accounts of MASH operation online, to find out how close to the front I could put my forward aid station. The description of battalion aid I use in this story is taken from an account where the ambulances drove under the cover of an embankment to within 50 feet of the front line. I tried to be as accurate to the actual operation of a MASH unit as possible, given the impossibly limited staff of the fictional 4077th. The number of casualties I had Hawkeye treat were based on a few records that I was able to find about actual patients treated at a MASH, divided by the number of doctors, and then boosted some to make Hawkeye pretty amazing. I hope it's not too off base. The number of beds at a typical MASH compared to those at the 121st Evac was pretty easy to verify online.

For medical facts about caring for wounded personnel under primitive conditions, I am indebted to Elizabeth M. Norman's incredible book, _We Band of Angels: The Untold Story of American Nurses Trapped on Bataan by the Japanese_. I borrowed heavily from their accounts of the effects of long-term undernourishment, and followed with pride their reintegration into society at the war's conclusion.

For basic facts about the Korean conflict, I relied upon Rod Paschall's book, _Witness to War: Korea_. I wanted to place my story in correct historical context, so that the characters could speak about actual events in the way that I imagine they would have reacted. The TV show necessarily had to stay away from an actual timeline, but I plotted my story so that the inmates of the 4077th could see the war through to its conclusion. I had to have Hawkeye disappear in March for the timing to work out. (As the characters are clearly cold in this episode, I just made it an unusually cold spring.) References to Operation Little Switch, the massive prisoner release, and so forth are as historically accurate as my limited research allowed. I also used the maps in Paschall's book to plot Hawkeye's train journey across North Korea via railroad. Images and descriptions of Songnim and Inchon I found on the web.

I can't close without thanking the producers, writers, cast, and crew of MASH for bringing us such an addictive series and engaging characters. It's a tribute to all of them that new fans continue to emerge decades after the show first aired, and that the series continues to inspire fanfics like this story. Thank you all for the many smiles, tears, and insights that you have given me. Best wishes to you all.


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